It struck me, as the headlights cut into the shadows of trees and lit a shallow path for my car to push through in the night on the back roads beyond Bloomington, that I haven’t written a poem in over a year, and even then, the last one was forced at best, written as an assignment for my therapist as I eased into a separation from my husband and the emotional hypothermia that winter brought along with it. You have to write a poem, he said. That is what you do. That is who you are.
The night didn’t care one bit for this memory. It just continued to exist.The way a leaf froze in the sudden bright light. The way the wind whistled and ached against the cracks in the side doors. The way the sky and the earth and the birds and the tar misplaced their sense of boundaries and got lost within each other. The night knew nothing about how hearts bleed and break and are remade and recreated. Sliced open at 65 mph on those winding roads; in the rear view mirror, solid and unbroken blackness.