I know this face,
chiseled stone.
He pulls to the side of the road,
gravel spits at our legs,
mine shaking, him yelling,
at you
to get in the car,
teethed curses spilling through
the window.
I know this face.
His face.
In your face.
What ‘re ya?
Stupid?
Door slams
closing out the ink of diesel,
the exhausted overpass,
Well, are ya?
Goodyear’s churn with
your lies from the comfort
of our backseat cave.
I am a stone face.
Watching.
I know this face.
Chiseled. Scraped.
An absent father.
Playing at guilt.
Driving.
Driving.
You ask me to fix your
hair as if it was the wind
of traffic that mussed it.
When you give me the
barrettes, I stare at the
pink hickey on your neck.
I can still smell his buddy’s
stink on your hands.
I am stone-faced.
****
This poem was prompt via dVerse, where we are encouraged to write about a memory, memory in general, or the memory.
Writing On The Sun 