I read a poem, a letter of love to a stranger who helped; it made me think of writing to the mindless driver who nearly killed me over some text or other, or to the young men who thought an old woman driving alone on a country road was a plaything to frighten and thereby up their manhood - writing instead to that implacable self who takes over in times of sudden crisis who can swerve a car at high speed, avoid oncoming cars and resettle into the drive-lane all without anger or fear or even anxiety but then when safety comes, will drop suddenly, leaving me behind, ready to begin shaking, hollow and breathless in my layby safety - to that elastic and instantaneous anima that materializes fully-formed and swerves toward the adolescent white-fellas driving their mother’s expensive green sedan, driving them - faces suddenly twisted into shock and dismay - off the road, ramming their undercarriage across the road-side ditch, into the frozen, rutted field beside a road they thought they owned. It’s she - that stranger who rides inside this woman just trying to survive the negligent day - that inner field of intractability that has saved me over and over, and over and never comes when simply called. I love you. Please don’t ever leave me.
About the Poet:
Pearl Button lives in the Salishan Territories of western North America. She is published or forthcoming in a variety of journals including The Literary Cauldron, Posit, SurVision Magazine, Skink Beat Review, Impspired, Peculiar Mormyrid, Halfway Down the Stairs and Drunk Monkeys.