by Cheryl Snell
We were forever trying to lose ourselves.
The top was down, radio blasting,
we weren't worrying about rogue stones or Bellís palsy,
that whole catalogue of woe.
On a road where every turn was hairpin, delinquent
notes began to follow lyrics off cliffs, crashing
through chords that swelled like strings or another tumor. Letís chase the sun out of its sac,
your voice jittered above the wheel. It was your song,
so I didnít try to stop you, though I knew
where you were headed
and the momentum it would take to get there.
CHERYL SNELL'S books include poetry--Flower Half Blown, Epithalamion, Samsara,
and a novel, Shivaís Arms.
She is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, and the book reviews editor for Alsop Review.
Visit her at http://shivasarms.blogspot.com.