On I-95

Father is asleep by the time you

remember what to say. Turn the

heat on & pilot yourself back

without a voice to guide you. You

must know the way—you must teach

yourself to swim in the deep-end, again

& each time. Steering, keep eyes on

cars beside you. Doors are

opening, now, just for you, this pre-

timed interval. Be good. Knuckles well-

greased, forearms acidic, eyelids

tight to your cornea. Father will wake

up, call you, ask how many apples

you want for the week. When the roads

are shut off, the detours are all so

unfamiliar. Even here, in daylight.

Another opening is on the horizon,

& you believe this. You say you do,

to yourself, you sing it when exiting

tight rotaries. The direction

is set. Gas tank is full. Whatever

flashes in front of you is welcome.