A Stranger Gives me Directions
He says, turn here, and the ground refuses
to stand still in lands I only dimly recognize
from grade school geography, as I recite
my thanks by rote, not actually saying anything,
while a clot of unexhaled breath aches in my throat.
Fretful and confused, my real language pushes
its lost words like a junk-filled grocery cart
along 71 south, grumbling about big disappointments.
If only I could remember how to speak up,
then I could say, I’m not actually lost. I have maps,
a GPS, besides, I know each night the moon is someplace—
in the sleight hand, on a stony hill. I could say
I may not know the way to heaven,
but if I’m silent, it’s easy to find Perdition.
– wendy taylor carlisle