Day 100 of 100 Poems/100 Days



In a machine called Oedipus,
I sit in the backseat,
behind the driver,
can’t see his eyes,
but he can see mine.

The warm interior,
sycamore wood,
horse-hide leather.

In my lap,
a box of bones,
my mother and father’s –
then I remember
where I’ve always been going:
back to Alexandria,
to where they kissed
under a ficus tree,
to bury them together.

On the radio,
a preacher shouting something
about: “one-hundred ghosts
make one-hundred limbs,
of the dark monsters,
waiting underneath our beds.”

Before I can tell the driver
to turn the radio down,
he turns it off,
as if he can read my thoughts,
as if he too has had enough
of these preachers and their beasts.


He checks the glove compartment –
but the map is missing,
and so we drive in the black,
along the cliffs of the ocean,
just steering by his instinct.

I hear something coming from the trunk,
kicking and screaming,
and I ask him who is that:
he says, “just a boy,
the child you were,
he is handcuffed to the inside,
kept close by my side,
for occasional entertainment,
when I am bored.”

I still can’t see his eyes,
but he’s always watching mine.

I finally realize this man
is kidnapping us all,
and I beg for him to pull over,
but instead he just lets go of the wheel.

The Cadillac slides,
he jumps out, rolls,
through the back window I see him stand,
dusts himself off,
an old man, handle-bar mustache,
staring back at me, with same jawbone.


The car continues,
through the dark,
now minus its driver
and I hear the boy in the trunk
whisper to himself
what the preacher said:

“One-hundred ghosts
make one-hundred limbs,
of the dark monsters,
waiting underneath our beds.”

I crawl into the trunk with him,
pull him close, as if he were mine,
and we break the water, towards the bottom.

As the trunk fills,
the boy is about to say something,
but I stop him,
because I don’t want to know,
and I can’t bear to remember anymore.


4 thoughts on “Day 100 of 100 Poems/100 Days

  1. Beautiful! You say what people feel when they can’t get the words out! Sometime the child inside IS trapped, and opening the door to memories of unfinished issues leave us wanting. I am glad you wrote this.

  2. Pingback: What 100 Poems Taught Me | words vs. pictures

  3. Pingback: My Favorites | words vs. pictures

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