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Road Trip

We shiver in the chilly car,
I drive the October night
air still alive with burning.

My mother beside me in the dark,
wrapped in a blanket,
my reverse papoose, a diaper, too.

Her hand, freed from the
woolen shroud, tells me
what the night denies,
her look that says
this ride will be
the last.

The last time I will sit beside
my mother.
The last time she will sit.

Holding hands
her grasp burns me with the
blood knowledge of love.

Next to me my same flesh,
her only other flesh,
And mine, too.
We have made it enough for us.

My passenger apologizes for her
un-coiffed hair, chipped nail polish,
long white hairs on her chin,
like a Mandarin.

Forthcoming in Hospital Drive Magazine.