I’m 42, I don’t need permission to seek
pleasure for myself, in darkness, driving
this rural road alone, the din of responsibility
growing quieter, and trust me, I will abide
no harm, I will care for each coming curve,
each passing car, I will not ask forgiveness,
not since my fertile room became afflicted,
this surgery, that surgery, am I to lose this
womb and with it some far-off sacredness?
The truth is: pleasure comes with a little
pain now. Pleasure is somewhere in the sky
where I don’t belong. And, getting closer,
my seatbelt becomes a kind of restraint.
I don’t have time. Some pleasures should find
me now, isn’t it possible I could deserve that?
And when I tremble—when I effervesce—
the only thing holding me back is the driving,
how little I can move and still be moved.
Click here to read Hannah Larrabee's compositional note.
Image: Woman Sitting in an Old Pick-Up Truck in Winter by Josh Hild, licensed under CC 2.0.
- While Driving - November 23, 2024