Her head lays against the passenger window,
as the rain spatters a soft, irregular beat.
I drive us on, on a cold and grey afternoon,
March, but not yet spring, not yet warm again.
She is curled up as much as she can be,
in the bucket seat and the seatbelt,
maybe dreaming one of her good dreams,
instead of the bad ones that hound her.
On the radio is a gentle melody, piano and bass,
a bell like angels ring and god’s own heartbeat,
as we drive over the mountain and thick forest.
Maybe The Promised Land is just over that crest.
She told me this morning she might be pregnant.
She wasn’t sure, absolutely, but she was suspecting that.
It would be our first child. What world will be left for it?
The Promised Land never materializes in a dynamic world.
I drive us on as she sleeps. She sleeps so little. So worn.
Leaving that poison town behind. Those wicked people.
What is waiting for us, with no Promised Land coming to us?
What is waiting for our family, where free will is the Sword of Damocles?