Poetry by Sammy Merabet

Edited by Karen Li

Suburban streets sprawl out into

the night sky

and guide the car into little hops

and bumps that make me grip onto

the wheel a little tighter every time—

both hands.

People told me that when I

got used to it all I’d only use

one

(barring assholes and tourist traffic and babies in the car and the

first hour of rain)

or even just my knees, but I

do two

a rigid two, too

At 10 and, honestly, ideally, 1:59:00.

There’s people who think I’m early like that

and people that’ll only ever think of me as late

I think back now to try and figure out who’s right

but I can’t think of being anywhere at all.

A video drones on, desperate to be heard against the

rhythm of driving and the hums of night and the

fuzz of AC that shouldn’t be on

that I don’t want on

that stayed on when I pulled out of the

driveway and was focused on not killing a cat

or a family or you or you or you

and it stays on now

as hands dig into the wheel.

Its chill mixes with the darkness and climbs up my arm,

past my cheeks and down my back.

I’m struck with it then.

And I can’t think of anything else.

And I hate driving, I hate driving, I hate driving.

Why aren’t you here?

Sorry. That’s not fair.

Why aren’t I with you?

I want to feel your hands

both hands

dig into the crevices of my neck.

Grab my skin and shoulders

In the way I imagine you can.

And keep me pointed forwards.

Don’t let me look at anything else.

Don’t let me look back at you.

Your fingertips railed through my nerves and

keeping me in drive. And when I need to change lanes

tap my shoulders, gently, like you always do,

and tap them how I imagine you could, too.

Breathe through the gap between carseat and headrest,

fighting that AC air at the back of my neck,

to let me know you’re alive.

Otherwise, I’ll swear you aren’t.

---

Artist Statement: We’re all forced to look back more often than we’d like to admit—we want to see it as something we can control, because that means we can do it wrong (and right, sometimes). I don’t think I can help when I look back. I still do it wrong, though. Here’s a poem for modern-day Orpheus-es (Orphei?) doing it wrong. Stay focused on the road!

It’s tough at night.