a poem for the birth of my saint

December 17, 2010 Candace Morris 14 Comments

we turn

leaning into the road
that snarls and portends
empty threats and fearful blind spots.
i wrap my arms
clutching to your grandfather's
worn leather jacket.
we lean into the turns.

my hair whips my face,
i loose my stomach,
it irritates me that i have to yell.
i have to hide in your shoulder,
my knuckles hurt with trying to hold on.
my sunglasses crunch on the pavement behind me.

but still
we lean into the turns.

for a while,
i could ride on my own.
right next to you
and we would be
separate together.

but still,
we lean into the turns.

i pulled ahead of you
overly cocky and full of adrenaline
but i leaned too far.
and yet again
wasn't careful enough with myself.
you pulled up behind me,
blocked all oncoming traffic
grinned as i insisted on doing it myself.
The gentle sexy way you pick me up
and put me on the back of your ride.
Preserving my confidence,
loving my weakness.

but still.
and yet
we lean into the turns.

Happy 32nd Birthday, Bubba.
Your remarkable soul is so, so good.

Now let's go get a drink.

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