Wilderness

Paula Bohince

My sister drove,
so long that what began before daybreak
ended in the same pitch,
and we barely noticed those in-between hours,

though this morning we laughed: almost
eight, still not light,
growing hysterical, wiping our eyes and joking
that this day might be the one—
sun closing down, saying
go to sleep.

Of course it rose anyway, but hesitantly,
thawing in lilac fog over the tunnels and tolls
that interrupted the wilderness.

Imagine walking out there.
Just stopping the car and getting out and walking
in one direction for hours.

I meant to say, I think this will be the last time
we’ll ever see our father.

And I wish—
I wish so many things, but briefly

want never to see
these limp trees again, leaning on each other,
this highway’s dirt-colored weeds.

Want to pull over in the middle of another life
and look at the sky, accepting
the apologies stars send down, lying alone,
leashed to no one.