Hitchhikers
The lesson is passed
from mother to daughter,
and so the cycle repeats.
You must stay on the road,
and not stop, or speak
to anyone, until you arrive home.
For strangers wait to rape you,
to kill you, to eat you like bread.
My mother had no daughters,
and could not pass on
what she did not believe.
Each stranger was an opportunity,
and an unmet friend.
So she picked up young men
on the dark forest road
that led to her mother’s house.
Destinations were shared,
if not names. I would only know them
by the way their eyes burned
huge in the rear view mirror, like smoke
rising from a fire. As we drove
the forest would encroach
on the pale morning, and cup
its hands leaning in close
as if to tell a secret
to these men. My mother would look
at the shine of their teeth
and mistake it for a smile.
The lesson is passed
from mother to daughter,
and so the cycle repeats.
You must stay on the road,
and not stop, or speak
to anyone, until you arrive home.
For strangers wait to rape you,
to kill you, to eat you like bread.
My mother had no daughters,
and could not pass on
what she did not believe.
Each stranger was an opportunity,
and an unmet friend.
So she picked up young men
on the dark forest road
that led to her mother’s house.
Destinations were shared,
if not names. I would only know them
by the way their eyes burned
huge in the rear view mirror, like smoke
rising from a fire. As we drove
the forest would encroach
on the pale morning, and cup
its hands leaning in close
as if to tell a secret
to these men. My mother would look
at the shine of their teeth
and mistake it for a smile.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson