Pressed

When do we press pause on mourning?
Why does it seem we only rewind sorrow,
reduced down emotions gone slow motion,
our soreness backed over with the weight
of tractor tires in summer-warm mud.
Time is not the healer proposed.
It sits firm with leaded foot pushing the peddle,
the transmission in reverse.
I've tried coming at it fast, adjusting my mirrors,
scraping the bugs and film from the windshield,
but no matter my efforts in moving forward,
my grip slips like oil slick, like black ice.
No one wants to outlive their beloved,
the empty passenger seat, the cold side of the bed.
We imagine it will never happen to us.
We imagine a road that curves the earth,
the orbit unending.

 

–Originally published by  Border Town Press.  In Transit: Poetry of People on the Move. October 2014. Print.

 

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