I try to orient myself at dawn somewhere
in Pennsylvania when the dark loosens the grip on
my back and I have to drive further east
as the sun rises into my eyes beyond the crack.
The light I remember startles me as new light forces me
to pull the visor down. Over the foothills, the beams
redden more intensely than taillights.
The eighteen-wheeler in front becomes a silhouette.
I have had this dream of morning hair more red than
golden. The sky turning blue as eyes
on me when I held up the earth with a handstand. You
acted like I was not there.
I try to orient myself to the day when I drive up
on you ringing the bells you gave me,
now hanging from the rearview mirror.
I dream of morning hair and blue eyes, the dawn of
your face seeing me this time holding nothing but
the steering wheel pointing eastward.
Yvonne B. Robery has a BA from Wheaton College, Wheaton, Illinois and an MA from Northwestern University, Evanston, Illinois. She has published poetry in various small presses including the Hiram Review, The Cresset, and the Christian Century. She works for the federal government.
