Leaving One of the State Parks after a Family Outing
The grass was the green of parades when we'd leave,
loading the trunk of the car in the summer evening.
The trees were all elms, shadows immense, and our thirst
was waiting to go somewhere for ice cream.
You would say Do this, Elizabeth, and I would do it
as if it were a game, on afternoons like that: I'd
spread. wet towels on the back seat, go and fetch things,
put mama's purse in the corner, close the door "click"
like two people kissing. Then I always said Can we coast
today? Can we? Mama would mention, Carl, it was
illegal,
but you put the car in neutral, in the shade facing the
long hill-released all the brakes.
In the back I would make small pushing motions
against the front seat, as if a little girl like me
could move an automobile. The car would sit, edged
with the chance of falling, then, slowly, begin to roll.
How I loved you then, your hands on the wheel in the
strong almost twilight, as you did something just for me
at last. The park lilac bushes pass us in shadow
as though about to stop. We falter, come up to
a slight rise. Then we begin the wild controlled descent,
silent as bicycles but weighing tons. The elm-tree
shadows fly over the hood and down behind; you begin
to brake for the main road approaching. Had enough?
Then of course you turned the ignition over, eased us
down to stop in second gear. We went from there
for ice cream or for root beer, without having
heard the question answered: No! if I could've known
how to say it, It's never enough. I want to go down
with you forever, without anger, pulled by the weight
of the car
in the steady descending silence, always just before sunset,
rolling through leaves, in some perpetually loving motion.
Structure
34 lines · 8 stanzas