One cold night
after the open mics, and
high on song and poems,
we drove north on Clark
toward home when beside the street
a woman wavered
into traffic, shining and
thin as a sapling,
her jacket hanging like wilt
off her shoulders.
In the north
where we come from
there are myths, warnings
about such encounters,
how one must be aware:
watch your stuff,
watch your heart.
We stopped of course,
and she climbed in
told us where she wanted
to go, but wasn’t sure
how to get there, and being
new comers to the city,
neither were we,
and the address was nebulous,
changed often, a flower
dropping petals.
What should we say of the hour
we drove around with her,
her body weakening, dozing,
then starting up with a shout as though
half submerged in water,
half rising in flight,
now and then oracular
Find the green light.
Turn there. What should we say
of her sudden scream “Let me out,”
pounding the windows.
And so we pulled over.
I asked if she could find her home,
and she stared at us,
smiled then, and murmured
as a child would over a toy, soothing
a beloved thing:
Home. Home. Home.
And then, as though
in a dream, she wavered again,
backed away, faded into graffiti
and was gone. As though in a dream
we drove on, silent, heart-broken, thinking
not all the gods
are safe from us,
not all are safe at all.