my_mother_somewhere_along_the_way

She goes on, chased by horns.
They prod her down a tag road
suffering the impatience of signposts.
NO STOPPING, ANY TIME.

Cars wave urgently,
not stopping nor she
asking amidst smoke and
OBJECTS CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR.

Everything wincing its eyes shut,
nothing sticking its head out,
tendrils flat and
opposed to conditions.

She watches
the swallows needle out from
mud-lick nests above the asphalt.

In these winds,
on this stage,
they attempt first flight.

A directionless Santa Ana
regards her dress with indecision.

All in wait
but the road grass that grows without waiting,
grows arthritic and
its death that makes tumbleweed.

A clinching fist of stray roots
holds to the ground.
She hangs on the overpass
chain-link, fingers white with survival.

The distance between fly and fall
cracks in the asphalt,
a space between here and home.
This is the leap that finds a way.

Signs look outward
and bow wayward,
but there are birds that arrive
in spite of direction.

They speak to one another
in East and West,
and they are named
for where they mate.

Wait,
wait,
wait
and it is lifted.

The lightness of morning flight.


a_a