Drive Poem by MARINA GIPPS

My mother reached for my father's pant leg
though it was considered improper
before resuming her place among
the tepid brown sock soup in the sink.
She was sculpted like a cat-her skin,
a pale lynx. She was driving around town
murmuring the rosary with the world's
most sensual vegetables under her arms,
her dress catching the gentle perspiration
in the centered hollows of her breasts.
She was thinking many things.
She drove quickly home to see him
beyond the grey dusk curtains of afternoon
where no silhouette of two bodies
could ever be touched by the eyes,
our avid learners. I remember the time
she told me how long it took her to drive
a car, any car, even those nice old Volkswagons
the girls in Buenos Aires had wanted.
She told me, 'Sex is an evil mess.'
She drove home-top down on her convertible,
wind blowing her in the direction of my father.
Our little egg about to meet his seed
as their hands touched in the unison
of a sad love song forgotten because it was
sung in the wrong language.