Hope

Jennifer McClellan

I’m a stare out-the-window kind of girl,

inherently thinking I might find my place

along the spine of a highway, as if the asphalt

curves will tilt me in the direction I belong.

The faraway doesn’t feel so far away today

from my view in the passenger seat of your car,

our vessel to freedom and rebellion that once

smelled of incense smoke, but now

of French fries and hotel cookies.

 

This is so rare these days, us alone like this.

Our voices in the air like darts departing fingertips

getting carried away with all the places we might go,

eventually, but this world was never meant for us.

Through the window, tree trunks stand up

like imperfect lines on a musical staff for the intricate

waves of Death Cab, Deftones, and Tool.

76 hours/35 minutes of your playlist are proof

that dreams dry out the death in us,

 

This is taking longer than it should,

and I hear it in your sighs. Your foot

on the gas pedal, stop-go-stop, pissed off

moving like a writer’s blocked pen,

despite the dreamy view of hot air balloons

rising out of the mountain fog.

Your knee hits the keys dangling from the ignition

as your foot moves to the brake again.

You say we’ll never take the I-40 again, but then

your hand reaches for my leg over the center console

and I want this to be a slow thing, because normally

I’m programmed for urgency.

 

I glance down at my pearl nails,

patterned with lilac sun rays and stars, and think of

the Whitman line you wrote in my notebook once

when I wasn’t looking, about shadows falling behind us.

My ring reflects the sunlight; I raise my gaze

and I can breathe like myself, knowing

we are more than a beginning.

Your touch calms the tempests beneath my skin.

It feels like I’ve tagged home base again, as if

seventeen years haven’t carved lines around our eyes.

The vibrant leaf tips along the October highway

remind me that things will change,

but the look in your eyes is permanent.

This is how I want to stay, with you.