What the Sky Is

POETRY

by Barbara Daniels

1
Late nights after classes
I talk baseball, our driver
known for falling asleep,
letting the bus slip
into a ditch. A man who knows
music talks Sinatra. We spell
each other, keeping the bus
on the turnpike but flailing a little
ourselves. My hinges rattle.
I study the sequence of shadows.

2
My dream-mother screams
from the back of a car
that I drive off a bridge
into waves. Red strobes
swing toward me, sirens
shrieking and squalling.

3
I don’t mean to run lights, cars
in my wake, trucks honking, scared
bicyclist braking. My mother
blue water. A blind branch
thrashes my windshield.

4
A woman forces the door
of a Ford no one’s driven
since June. It’s dirty
as a slattern’s dress.
The woman must bruise
herself with that wanting.
What the sky is: Mom’s
hand trembling. What
the dirt is: holy ground.
I lie in a red bed, moon
at the window gently rocking.