Untethered
In the first one I am four, a summer visit
to Cicero Grandma from Iowa City. Our car falls
from the bridge with force that peels
my sticky thighs from the vinyl, my brother
and I flung upwards in the roomy blue womb
of the LeSabre’s back seat. Our baby brother,
clamped in Mom’s arms but she, too, lurches
above her perch. Dad’s hands latch the wheel
like anchors, all of our mouths tunnel-dark
O’s, our displacement in space gauged
in our stomachs. It halts before we hit
the water below. Next time, the river is frozen,
the dream updated for the season. But always
the fall, the sudden-squeezed and squirting stomach
mark its finale. Later I drive, so fright
and guilt fight in that knot, heat or freeze it
with what I did wrong—sped too fast up a hill
whose crest morphs to the I-80 bridge over
the Mississippi, drove with abandon the damp road
linking mother to daughter, moved too swiftly
from one sturdy bank to appreciate the surface
grip on the treads. My fault now for the floating
family hurled from the rounded earth.
*
Professor Emerita of English at Aquinas College, Michelle DeRose lives and writes in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Her most recent publications are in Months to Years, The New Verse News, Panoply, The Dunes Review, and The Midwest Quarterly.
Wow. I feel “untethered” after reading this poem.
“…in Mom’s arms but she, too, lurches above her perch.” So moving. I feel as if lifted from my chair, floating while I read it and after.
Surreal and stunning imagery, Michelle.
Thank you, Pamela–for reading and for commenting!