kbk

It's a nice poem in and of itself, but the fact that I remember my mother reciting it to me gives it those associations of home and comfort, and so it is just... it's a comforting poem for me.

( Cargoes )

I remember the white roses -
once in a while - not often.
I was eight or so - no more -
when father cut them down.
Diseased, he told me later,
when I asked as a woman.
I ran past them in summer,
past the insects they attracted.
They were a bridal arch
before the shabby back gate.
I passed through it, unthinking,
every day after school,
preparing to tell mother
the highs and lows of my day.

I cupped the fallen petals in my hand
and breathed in their perfume.

so this guy
pretty guy
jumps in my car
points a gun at my head
says “take me to san francisco”
I put the car in gear
start driving
four blocks later
he’s looking at me in the mirror
puzzled like
he says
“you aren’t screaming”
I say
“you want me to?”
he laughs
but the gun’s still pointing at my head
so I don’t laugh back
we drive for a while
he tells me to put the radio on
so I do
it’s some pansy shit pop
so I turn it over
no way do I listen to pop
not even when there’s a gun on me
I can’t forget there is
not for one second
he’s sitting there
cool as shit
not talking
just watching me
grins when I settle on hard rock
starts singing along
gun still on me
so we’re cruising down the freeway
headbanging
yelling defiance to the sky
fucking pigs pull us over
tell me to pay more attention
gun’s tucked away safe
guy’s looking mellow and loved-up
winks at me in the mirror
daring me to say something
I apologise sweetly
nod and smile and “yes officer”
off we go again
driving
gun out again
he looks at me
laughs
joyous
I laugh with him
fucking mental
howling like coyotes
he tells me “pull over”
I cut the engine
he gets out turns around bends down
kisses me
sweet mother of god what a kiss
says “thanks babe”
swipes my cell
walks away