Lia Brooks

The Drive

The drive back is fitful.

He takes it all upon himself -
the carriageway, night’s swollen face
with its expressionless dark. He takes corners

uncomfortably, prefers the straight
and its hurry. And the children

pretend they are asleep
so he can think. They curl in the backseat,
wait for trees to slow outside the window.

He sweats the day. Hours form tiny droplets
and fall from his forehead.

*

What shall I say to the visitors? - all these black suits
and dresses perfectly pressed. They sip wine,
harass me with hands and arms as if they know me.

They come from the city, riverside condos probably
or houses on the outskirts of a village
we never visited. I’m the good hostess -

I carry platters, make sure they’re warm enough.

*

All the noise and red lights,
the grating through metal.

They pulled her
from the belly of the car
and she never complained,
just like the delivery
in that white room
with the midwife so calm
I could have hit her.

Such a quiet baby,
some things
stay the same. Her big brother,

closing his eyes
like any night after story-time,
making sure
she was asleep first. And you,

climbing from it
like some miracle and smiling
only to lay down next to them.

*

Was it King Alfred? Perhaps the Pig
and Whistle or the Rising Sun?

It doesn’t matter

I stayed indoors, washed up little plastic cups
and plates, tidied the toys away and fell
into the chair sighing, happy for silence.

I watched a black and white film
about a woman escaping a haunted city.
And late in the afternoon,
sat on the back step with a cup of tea,
saw the sun roll behind the roofs.

*

I thank everyone for coming.

How big this house is
as they file out, onto the drive.