I am on this path
to find something lost to me,
something I never owned.
The long dusty roads,
the people, the noise,
sleeping sitting up,
or in unfamiliar rooms
the moonlight pressing down on us.
We go sunward
to stop the clock from unwinding,
to shelter the world from the sky.
My long bones cramping,
hair blowing,
the hum of the engine,
the throb of blood in my temple,
I want something I cannot break.
This was not my itinerary,
I didn’t write the guest list
nor draw the maps.
A cup of tea,
The smell of fresh newsprint,
The silence sitting around me
Like faithful attendants,
the moon, light as a flower petal drifting in the sky.
But we are still traveling,
no more than a one-night stay anywhere
and trust no one
there are always shadows behind us
and every beautiful face
has cruel eyes,
especially the mirror.
I am too weary to protect anyone.
Time has begun to turn back on itself,
sometimes I look down at my hands
small and full of blood,
paper airplanes pass us,
adults loom large above me,
the sound of water rushing,
voices speaking, just far enough away,
the moon an invisible witness.
Back further still,
the door to this world crushing me,
these same conversations,
the same map, but backwards,
the feeling of waking under a tree,
damp from the earth, yet thirsty,
sore ribs, bladder aching.
I am holding nothing.
I am on this path,
to stop the clock from winding,
to lay my desires to rest.
The long dusty roads,
hair blowing, the hum of the engine,
sleeping sitting up,
voices speaking, just far enough away,
the moonlight pressing down on us.
Time has begun to go forwards,
more one-night stays in strange rooms,
the conversations bear repeating,
shadows run beside us,
mountains loom large above me,
the cruel eyes of the river
are damp, yet still thirsty.
to find something lost to me,
something I never owned.
The long dusty roads,
the people, the noise,
sleeping sitting up,
or in unfamiliar rooms
the moonlight pressing down on us.
We go sunward
to stop the clock from unwinding,
to shelter the world from the sky.
My long bones cramping,
hair blowing,
the hum of the engine,
the throb of blood in my temple,
I want something I cannot break.
This was not my itinerary,
I didn’t write the guest list
nor draw the maps.
A cup of tea,
The smell of fresh newsprint,
The silence sitting around me
Like faithful attendants,
the moon, light as a flower petal drifting in the sky.
But we are still traveling,
no more than a one-night stay anywhere
and trust no one
there are always shadows behind us
and every beautiful face
has cruel eyes,
especially the mirror.
I am too weary to protect anyone.
Time has begun to turn back on itself,
sometimes I look down at my hands
small and full of blood,
paper airplanes pass us,
adults loom large above me,
the sound of water rushing,
voices speaking, just far enough away,
the moon an invisible witness.
Back further still,
the door to this world crushing me,
these same conversations,
the same map, but backwards,
the feeling of waking under a tree,
damp from the earth, yet thirsty,
sore ribs, bladder aching.
I am holding nothing.
I am on this path,
to stop the clock from winding,
to lay my desires to rest.
The long dusty roads,
hair blowing, the hum of the engine,
sleeping sitting up,
voices speaking, just far enough away,
the moonlight pressing down on us.
Time has begun to go forwards,
more one-night stays in strange rooms,
the conversations bear repeating,
shadows run beside us,
mountains loom large above me,
the cruel eyes of the river
are damp, yet still thirsty.