noreen ocampo

SOME NIGHTS I THINK I WON'T DREAM OF YOU AND THEN

we live in an ocean town,

but neither of us is a fish. I am

a universally acclaimed

Tokyo-drifter. You are my noisy backseat

driver, picnic basket-holder,

smushing egg sandwiches

as I triumphantly hydroplane.

Let’s thread rickety mountain roads

and race these monsoon trains.

The ocean loves my wheels but

only enough to chase them. Tell me

a secret. Open your eyes. You say:

keep your hands on the wheel.

When we were softer, you slipped

your hand into my hands

whenever someone else was driving,

and you never liked wheels warping space.

I know how your stomach churns,

even as mountains turn to pasture

hiding home just uphill. I’m sorry

we didn’t get to picnic like I promised

and the ocean ate our gazebo whole.

I imagine she was hungry

with good intent.