The Distance Between Two Points
I want to go to the place
where my hair is blown so fiercely
it becomes little yellow dotted lines
that begin to traverse the I-84 over
her hip bone
jagged at the on-ramp
I love the geometry of this woman
she who leaves pieces of herself on thruways
orange peels tossed from the window
for foraging creatures
and my fingers sweetened with now—
withered rinds and the smell of her
everywhere
where are we going
to find this woman
on the dark side of the map
lacing our fingers behind accordion folds
spelling out constancy and irreversible
in the names of long-forgotten cities
rest-stops we call our own
—Devi Lockwood, Cambridge, MA
