Tucked inside the strong folds
there is dirt under the pillow
where her hands fell asleep
clasped as if around a steering wheel
and asking for our children
to be safe. She kept this vigil
all night and woke still whispering
across the folds in the bed, a wandering sound
and one that wouldn't arrive
until we found it safe to drive across
this life again. Until then,
the road is a glass fabric
too vulnerable to even place upon a map.
I can't exactly put my finger on why, but I more-than-absolutely love this. Did you write this yourself? If so, and if your goal is still learning to tackle poetry, I think you've been successful here. I love the image of "glass fabric." I'm sitting here trying to picture what glass may look like as actual fabric, then I picture this scene you've laid out on this page, knowing it's so much more than a simple phrase. Beautiful <3
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