SOME NIGHTS I THINK I WON'T DREAM OF YOU AND THEN
we live in an ocean town,
but neither of us is a fish. I am
a universally acclaimed
Tokyo-drifter. You are my noisy backseat
driver, picnic basket-holder,
smushing egg sandwiches
as I triumphantly hydroplane.
Let’s thread rickety mountain roads
and race these monsoon trains.
The ocean loves my wheels but
only enough to chase them. Tell me
a secret. Open your eyes. You say:
keep your hands on the wheel.
When we were softer, you slipped
your hand into my hands
whenever someone else was driving,
and you never liked wheels warping space.
I know how your stomach churns,
even as mountains turn to pasture
hiding home just uphill. I’m sorry
we didn’t get to picnic like I promised
and the ocean ate our gazebo whole.
I imagine she was hungry
with good intent.