They burn you
like the berries of mountain ash in August,
standing by the road,
clearly defined,
autumnal brilliant, heads
scorched from waiting
in the sun.
How can
you pass them up?
But you do,
and dream each night of a hell,
where you are a hitchhiker,
and no one will ever stop to pick you up.
Excuses:
I’m a woman alone;
I’m moving all my books;
I need the time for thinking;
one of them might murder me;
but really, it is the look each one gives me
of need,
desperate need,
pick me up, or I’ll fail to reach my goal,
and that need frightens me,
so I look away,
speed on,
dream each night of a mountain ash
with its bunches of orange berries gleaming
like the failures of my life,
burning beautifully on the tree,
Oh, hitchhikers, hitchhikers,
And they remind me
that I drive across country often, looking for your face
in each car I pass,
or which passes me, knowing you would not hitchhike,
thinking of the two years I spent with you,
reliving them over and over,
knowing I had everything I wanted,
but like Midas was silent and stiff with the gold I had
touched,
felt always as if I had been buried under a ton of diamonds
still feel the dust of them glinting on me as I drive across
country,
my hair sparkling with the brilliance you left,
and those hitchhikers
reminding me of hell. That I had what I wanted once,
and lost it,
failed, watched myself failing,
still not understanding why I failed,
but knowing I did,
and still passing-65, 75, 85 miles an hour,
those hitchhikers,
burning by the side of the road,
burning
like the berries of the beautiful mountain ash,
burning like my tongue
on fire,
burning me, as I sleep protected in my rings of fire,
the gleaming car which hurtles me through America,
and all I have
is not enough.
Mountain ash, not the ash from out of which a bird
with glinting neck feathers who flies suddenly up on the
road
in front of the swift car, would come,
not the ash on the forehead of holy sinners,
not the ash of immortality,
Ash-a tree, with its berries not the color of any jewel,
not the color of blood, but a rare and exceptional color,
given only
to plants, and I see each one of you,
as I pass on the road,
burning like the autumn berries,
and the beauty makes me pass by quickly.
In my car is an altar, sacrificial stone and knife,
the tears of blame and understanding,
and blood; all the blood my body has lost;
Oh, hitchhikers, hitchhikers,
you would not want to travel with me.
You would not want to travel with me.
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