30 poems in 30 days
17 April 2013
The Long Way Home
Everything in the world used to hurt.
I was an alien to myself in Roswell,
stranded in the motel parking lot,
perched above a central bollard
I couldn’t see due to the length
of the car. A mistake of navigation,
a landing gear malfunction. I felt
the underside rip and scream;
but that was only the sound I longed
to make, vibrating in my head and
tightened chest. No screech, just
an unexpected bump and coming to
a halt astride concrete. Automatic drive
loosened all controls; I missed the
nudge and bite of clutch. I felt
the earth brace itself for disaster
as I chastised myself, not having
foreseen this position – stuck –
the narrative all gone wrong just
as I reached its middle. Anticipating
full flow and throttle, and now what?
What if the journey was over? What if
there was damage beyond repair?
Hope plummeted, I entered desolation,
isolated in a private shame. Can the
Roswell story ever really be known?
Unable to disappear by will of thought,
forwards or backwards my only choice,
it took courage and a deal of revs to find
reverse. I was an alien to myself in Roswell;
terrifed at loss of control, I believed I had
unbalanced the universe. Every fibre of
my being was at fault; every squeak of tyre
on tarmac was not the heat but me laying
scars in the world. A reminder that I’d
lost my way. Being far more robust
than me, the car required no recovery.
I was an alien to myself in Roswell.
Everything in the world used to hurt.