Page 39 - Contrast1997

A Moving Violation

A woman alone, I travel the miles
locked inside the armor of my car.
Lulled in a haven of gray hum, I unwind,
and mind, instead of highway, the specks
of black cows perched like ravens on the hill.

The distant smudge of a pick-up truck rolls
along the slant and stretch of blacktop
the way a yawn curls from a dog's waking mouth.
Distracted, I study yellow lines,
parallels that barricade the pavement.

The burst of a car's horn shatters my thoughts.
I accelerate and pull the car
toward the distance, watching it unravel.
In the truck ahead there ride three men;
the man on the right turns around to grin.

Skewed by a wad of tobacco, his smile
persists and butts into my refuge
the way a salesman's foot jams into a door.
He grants a respite and turns away,
then leans from his window to spew black juice.

He shifts again and I avoid the eyes
that rove around my body like hands.
I don't want to see-I fumble, fidget, fight
his bloated image, the twist of his
tongue and fingers, the puncture of power.

But I do. I see the fleshy process,
the twitch, taste, and suck of the finger,
the middle finger-moving up and down, up
and down while he licks, while he laughs
at me, so naked, missing all my skin.

Sharon Campbell Snyder

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