There was his truck and the night—silvery blue, steaming the way
summer breathes against a neck. There was the parking lot, empty
of people, cars lined up like they had just taken seats in the front row
of the hottest show in town. We were the stars, and the stars were us—
far away and glinting like something you follow from a great distance,
which he had done, over years and canyons, through fits and starts
and interruptions, over fences of yes and no. There was his hand no
longer resting on the steering wheel. There was that pause as I reached
for the door—but what was I reaching for? There was the longing
of the song on the radio of every moment we had: the shadow
of doorway of my rented house, nothing ever mine; the blink
of Christmas lights before my plane startled the white winter sky;
the last time he had arrived—in snow, with chained tires, the cold whistle
of a season we could not fix. There was his truck and the night—
the drum of cicadas, the silence he let fill the cab of his truck
so that I could decide once again whether I wanted to stay, and he
could twist on the engine of his heart and lead it toward highway.
–
Shuly Xóchitl Cawood teaches writing workshops, doodles with markers and metallic paint, and is raising two poodles and four orchids. She is the author of six books, including Something So Good It Can Never Be Enough (Press 53, 2023) and Trouble Can Be So Beautiful at the Beginning (Mercer University Press, 2021), winner of the Adrienne Bond Award for Poetry. Shuly has an MFA from Queens University. Learn more at shulycawood.com.
© 2024, Shuly Xóchitl Cawood
Halfway Down the Stairs 