The Future Burden of You Leaving This Earth

After you bought a motorcycle, 
distance rolled me under its tires.
You out there generating torque, 
throwing pistons into the crankshaft 
of the wind, zipping past broken 
sofas littering the underpass —
how could I not think of oil slicks
on the asphalt, slippery gravel?

O husband, I’ve memorized you   
like the scent of cinnamon. The scrape 
of the knife as you butter toast, 
the creak of hardwood under your feet, 
your first contented slurp of tea. 
Here is your helmet’s hard knock, 
the scrunch of a leather jacket, boots 
clomping heavy as an army. 
Here is an engine thrumming
down the street. Here
is sound dying back.

How will I watch clouds grow orange, 
feel wind brush me aside? 
Some things are too real to imagine. 
I keep seeing a road of rapid 
shadows, patches of flickering light. 
Darkness leaning into a curve, 
practiced as a billfold folded 
a thousand times. Where will
I find you? The day’s stories 
are piling up. I need to
tell you everything.

EILEEN PETTYCREW

Eileen Pettycrew lives and writes in Portland, Oregon. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Normal School, SWWIM Every Day, CALYX, Gold Man Review, Slipstream, The Scream Online Dreams Anthology, and Watershed Review, among others.