Public Republic

David Harrity

Photo: shinealight

Two-lane farm road—
I’m wandering, lost,
in the dark of Kentucky.
I guide the car
to the gravel shoulder, kill
the wheezing engine, listen
to the dinging heartbeat of the door
ajar against the night noise where
I step out in the low fog.
The sky above is clear.
A plane glides
under the fixed stars.
I hear its sigh and slide back
years to a field near
my college dorm where
we took sleeping bags into the dark.
You opened your shirt
and took my hands
to place them on your body,
warm as breath.
The moon balanced behind you
to make you pale.
Around me now
the engine clinks to quiet,
and the world is soothing
itself with ripples
and wind. I’m driving
back to you, tired, alone, beaten.
And on the ground there is a glass bottle,
a clear arrow resting
in the ditch, pointing
me back down the dusty cut—
and I can hear your voice,
and I can feel your palms
on the back of my hands
guiding me again.