mindbombs

Yellow Light
from Nancy Johnson's Zoo & Cathedral

Fully formed, your life arrives a dog
ashamed of its nature. You wonder
when it will turn on you and how.

On the road 19 hours from Arkansas
guided by the bruised moon hanging
over D.C. At two in the morning
the last century of miles wakes the runner up,
the ants on your legs, dog in the back seat.

Only the moon and the driver
moving into a yellow tunnel of light,
driving back into the womb, which
no matter how your mother turned out
later, is where you want to be now,
free from future and past.

In the city at 3:30 and out of gas
like so many other nights--
so much saying this is where you
are now. Still shaking, afraid
at every stop light you'll be dry
and have to sep into time with a tall
white dog to get home.