JANE CASSADY
THE SENTRA OF SISYPHUS
The road crews
here in snow-day county
plowed the straight-aways,
but not the curves.
The car surrenders to a soft careen.
I center in the bucket seat,
clutching the dashboard lightly.
Welcome to my family, a lifetime of
white knuckle driving. A fleet of junk
cars keeps us all in touch for favors.
My brother follows. Our alternator
is failing. The dials have gone out,
the clock is faded. The stupid thing wastes
energy on the battery light.
Ass-first in the snow bank. It has been a long day.
I have to hurry my sobbing. My dutiful
brother and the other cars stopping to
check should not think I’m hurt.
The last start, the last erg gets us out.
The heater must not be used. I recall
a story I heard in Girl Scouts. A girl
forgot her sweater and a storm blew up
suddenly, it froze her with her eyes open.
Now I’m wiggling my toes and blinking.
TO MY WIFE, THE MASTER OF A CERTAIN GARDEN IS LIKE FAMOUS PEOPLE
They might run off together
with their envy-colored dahlias
and sugar baby watermelons
in the shared plot
by the bird sanctuary.
I’d be left a faint ring
of dried potting soil.