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ImpalaWhen we were late,
she drove like a demon
on wheels to our parochial
school, revving with the tips
of bare toes, her vision enabled
solely by pillow props.
The pipecleaner octopus
danced from the rearview mirror,
swaying with each curve,
leaning forward, then reclining
up the seemingly endless hill,
the countdown to first bell
7 minutes away,
4 minutes to get there.
But that Impala knew better.
It tore through residential mazes,
the second skin asphalt smooth
on our wrinkled skirts
and milk-toting grasps.
Almost race car sliding
into its front door slot
with a minute to spare,
we chugged to homeroom,
the fisted curses and empty threats
slowly fading into grade school chatter.
Then morning prayer begins.
SolaceShe never slept well in the dark,
not without the children of the sun and moon
to guide her weary lids home.
Guided by the aftermath, she was always two steps behind.
What did the world look like to the girl who had been through it all?
Braved the heaviest of storms,
yet skipping over cracks in the pavement.
They said her eyes were the wisps of clouds before the storm.
To him they were reflections of pages overlooked.
She said it was like she lived the life of someone she had never met.
Laid out to dry, yesterdays news.
He knew her as the girl who was built to never collapse.
He wished he was too.
He loved her more than words could say, and yet her pain was such,
that at times, he feared she wouldn’t make it.
But on nights like these, even when it threatened to consume her,
he became convinced that somehow she would.
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