Transit/Fall

By Liz Afton

       We learn the way
through moving, the wind
moving trees moving leaves
past the car moving us
through gusts:
exit, exit, gear shift, song.
       You grind us along and
you’re more than a driver, you’re
a captain, we’re a ship, I’m
a sail, and the lost traffic,
everything’s tacking.
       My hand out the window
holds a ball of highway air
thrown fast and hard, hair-gel
cold and substantial as
maybe a baby turtle.
       I mean to tell you this
but when I look over you are
la-la-ing, off-key, alive
in light.
              Then it’s all down
hill, skidding: the road, that
shy turtle, my stupid heart.

Published October 2009