Freeform

poem

There’s only one road down the mountain,
and I was the only one in the car awake,
so I planned a poem to write down at the bottom.

There was early red sun. The road beyond 
the wheel slipped in and out of mist and smoke. 
I crossed the same river seven times.

I thought I’d write in a new form, 
that some guy online invented
and I’d liked. An eight he called it— 
maybe—for eight lines, no rhymes,
a kind of mirrored structure—
well, I’d look it up below. 

We descended and returned the car,
got a pound of fresh tomatoes
through the bomb detector, kissed
and said we'd see each other soon.
We parted ways and then of course
I couldn’t find the goddamn poem. 

Was it eights? I recalled two fours 
but who knows why. I remember numbers
if they’re friendly, but I might as well have dreamed 
that form. I searched the guy’s blog 
until the plane took off. I scrolled back 
through the year. I read a dozen poems, 
all the wrong ones. Nothing.

In the end I had to find another way 
to say what I intended, which was 
that I drove with extra care down 
that mountain road, taking 
the curves five under, touching 
the brake like an animal I could frighten, 
to let my mother sleep. 

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With thanks to Emily for the help, and with respect to Sherman Alexie, who is not just some guy online.