Archive for roads

Terra Firma

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 10, 2009 by 1writegirl

Another road calls my name in a
lover’s honeyed whisper
Come to me, don’t hesitate
You know you want it, baby…

So seductive, so sweet with promises
Promises never kept

In the past I’ve embarked
Time and again
Going everywhere and nowhere
At once

It seems I am one of those who
Failed to grow roots
Deficient in lineage corpus

But this time, I resist its pull
I put up a hand
And plant my feet

This time I will not run

I will not be fooled by sparkles embedded
By dashed lines and smooth hard black
By the rhythmic hypnotic hum
Toward endless, empty nowheres

This time I’ll stand still
I will take a deep breath
In slow, honest motion

In this place
I will hold my own,

My own terra firma.

The Road to Monterey

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 3, 2009 by 1writegirl

I was nervous about our reunion, afraid his feelings might have changed. Yet he held me tight when he saw me, and we talked for hours over late night breakfast at Denny’s, where the coffee is always hot. When we fell into bed, it felt to me like coming home after an exhaustive journey to a faraway place. Fever held within gradually released, hungry hands and mouths seeking and finding, replaced by trust passing through layers of body and soul all mixed up together. The following night I asked for the words. Do you love me? Absolutely. And I sighed with relief, all was right with the world.

The next day we grabbed a coffee, headed north out of San Luis Obispo. We thought about taking 101 all the way to Monterey, and my mind flitted briefly to Steinbeck and Cannery Row, and flop houses where hookers were groomed to be wives. But I got the stupid idea to go look at studios instead; I thought it was what we both wanted. But that night he told me, I don’t want to make plans of any kind right now. I just want to work and take each day one step at a time, Ok? I agreed, and drove back to Oregon, where the days pass much like they did before, except now when he writes to say, Nothing’s changed, he’s careful to never say I love you or even to say I miss you; too afraid, I suppose, that doing so might give me the wrong idea. It feels sometimes like we’re going backwards, until I remember that we have never been here before.

So I follow his lead, putting my right foot forward as his left goes back, wishing for Audrey Hepburn’s grace, my form shadowing his. Letting him set the pace and holding on ever so loosely, just enough to keep the connection. He makes occasional reference to us in the unveiling of his soul, as only a true poet can do, letting the frayed edges of his hope slide across the face of my beating heart. Reminders that there are no formulas, or calendars in love, only roads that sometimes take unexpected turns, with yield signs, or miles of traffic that hamper your yearning for speed; sometimes closed for construction, sometimes newly paved. Reminders that it might take more than one cup of coffee on the road to Monterey.