Give Up
By THEA CLARKBERG
Street lights bleed
Road so smooth
I’m floating,
Slipping.
Cold cars never touch
and if they do
It’s the touch of death
Crunch and noise and color.
Give in to the the inevitable:
You will hit the ground.
Looking through the windshield
I already feel the noise and I
already give up.
Reactivity runs out, you know.
But like breath,
involuntary,
I pull away.
Get angry.
Fight back.
Wake up.
I shake my head and
blink.
No.
Think.
Soft
so soft you want to put your lips
against her warm
white
fur.
Her chest and nose stretch forward
Eyes ahead, attentive.
Searching.
Does she see what I see?
To that stone, does she calculate the jump as I do?
She sits back
and looks back
and gives slack
Gives up.
I watch and call my kitten again
And wait.
She looks, calculates
and
jumps quietly
over clear cold water.
Her white fur gets wet,
and she licks at it.