Tess Gallagher
This kiss won't ride in a car
even with you
in the back seat looking dangerous
as a mink. It insists
on running alongside the window
like a piece of the scenery
that won't give you up.
See that spatter, right
where you thought for a moment
it was beautiful? Insects
die over and over
just to prove the sky
is lived-in like this heart
for which I have been given
an inferior sign.
Soon, you'll get tired, worrying
about the car running over
my feet, worrying
for the child in me
that's attracting
all these mothers
like a bad parade. You'll
tell the driver to stop
and let you out.
I'll let you
out. I'll stop
and let you out.
