Because we all want to write more poems.
Sudden Valley
Backseat demon, that little
chill up my spine as I drive
the dark roads from my parents' house.
Driving through the ill-named Sudden Valley,
with its tinge of mildly unpleasant surprise
I find myself locking the doors reflexively
turning on the brights
shaking off the shivers
by trying to recite
a prayer from memory,
and when that doesn't work,
a poem.
Finally, frustrated, no prayer, no
poem coming to mind,
I turn on the radio, hit the seek button,
run into the soothing cadences
of a BBC news reader.
He is talking of Syria.
How many people have died in the last few days.
Then the former leader of Yemen,
who is visiting our country for medical care.
It is not clear if he will return.
His countrymen do not want him.
He has killed too many of them.
I wonder
how many and what kind
of prayers or poems
got the Syrian people,
the Yemeni people,
through their very real fears
these last few months.
My imaginary backseat demon
has fled. Their suffering renders my
fears childish, silly, meaningless.
"Through a glass darkly."
Yes, that's it.
- Jennifer Dixey's Shared Poems
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