The Lyre Requires an Attention to Fingerwork, and a Longing for It, Too

Suburban streets sprawl out into
the night sky
and guide the car into little hops
and bumps that make me grip onto
the wheel a little tighter every time—
both hands.

People told me that when I
got used to it all I’d only use
one
(barring assholes and tourist traffic and babies in the car and the
first hour of rain)
or even just my knees, but I
do two
a rigid two, too
At 10 and, honestly, ideally, 1:59.
There’s people who think I’m early like that
and people that’ll only ever think of me as late
I think back now to try and figure out who’s right
but I can’t think of being anywhere at all.

A video drones on, desperate to be heard against the
rhythm of driving and the hums of night and the
fuzz of AC that shouldn’t be on
that I don’t want on
that stayed on when I pulled out of the
driveway and was focused on not killing a cat
or a family or you or you or you
and it stays on now
as hands dig into the wheel.
Its chill mixes with the darkness and climbs up my arm,
past my cheeks and down my back.

I’m struck with it then.

And I can’t think of anything else.
And I hate driving, I hate driving, I hate driving.

Why aren’t you here?
Sorry. That’s not fair.
Why aren’t I with you?

I want to feel your hands
both hands
dig into the crevices of my neck.
Grab my skin and shoulders
In the way I imagine you can.

And keep me pointed forwards.
Don’t let me look at anything else.
Don’t let me look back at you.
Your fingertips railed through my nerves and
keeping me in drive. And when I need to change lanes
tap my shoulders, gently, like you always do,
and tap them how I imagine you could, too.
Breathe through the gap between carseat and headrest,
fighting that AC air at the back of my neck,
to let me know you’re alive.
Otherwise, I’ll swear you aren’t.

This poem was featured in the Spring 2024 issue of the Echolalia student literary journal over at UC Irvine. Please check out the rest of the works on their site---they're an amazing bunch of artists and writers!

This poem was also part of my first Hardcover Spinal Fluid zine, A Zine of Writing on Obsession. If it seems familiar, that's why! Please know that this caused me a great deal of internal debate over whether or not it should still be labelled as a "new poem" on the front page.