| Getting There |
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Each morning of our vacation father combs my hair, puts it through a rubber band just the way mother taught him and calls my top knot donut. But it's getting there I remember, the long drive through a desert -- the bittersweet taste of lemonade. Everything, everywhere parched and how I squat behind a cactus to pee. Music swells inside his convertible, top up this blistering day. Large hands on the steering wheel. I can see that bluish scar zigzag down his cheek. "We'll be there soon," he says, hopelessly lost. |
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 Books · Book Excerpts · Other Poems  About Melanie · Order Books · Readings |
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