A Thousand Different Skies

I want to pack my life into a car
neatly -- which I'm good at --
and drive across these states in messy and distortionary lines.

I want to see the world from its highways
clear views, of open spaces --
swim in rivers, sleep in canyons,
and look upon a thousand different skies.

I want to be so, singularly alone
to know the crushing solitude of a tent for one, a meal for one, a car for one
walk down forest paths like a Gretel without siblings
and know, that I'll be fine.

Or, I want a partner
a lover who craves loneliness as much as I do,
who points us out above as coupled stars:
which exist only until the light of their destruction arrives.

(We are not pessimists.
We are physicists,
and know the only constant here is time.)

I want to exist in the side country.
To spend hours in the drivers seat and days walking through deserts,
balance my stays in gravel-floored campgrounds
with cold nights on mountain-sides.

I want cities to be an exception
like civilization is just one more biome,
where the grass is blunt-ended and you can't see sunrise.

I'm going to pack my life into a car.
Maybe this year, maybe later.
I'll crank the windows, scan the radio,
push my pedal down, and drive.

In High Places

I'm leaning over the balcony,
looking into an open space.
The sunlight is gathered in
through the wall of windows.
If I pushed and let myself
topple, I would land on my head,
but not die.
I think about the balloon,
the light singing out from the horizon,
leaning over the wicker sides and saying Yes,
if I jumped, this would kill me.
I think about my fears.
Coming home to a dark house with cars in the driveway,
my advisor's casual comments about bulimia,
steeling my body like armor against the words of an audiobook.
The railing of a balcony is not included.
My professor passes behind me, calling "Don't jump!"
and giving me a smile.
I don't tell her that's exactly what I'm thinking about.
I don't tell her I've never contemplated suicide
or self harm; not even once
although its more than true.
I think about my fears.
I think about the women whose lives I can't change,
and all the harm I've done.
I think about wanting
to help them gather in the sun.