I-80

Kevin Roddy

I-80 stirs as does a reptile
By which my kitchen window,
Misted with tumultuous water,
Reckons me—but this time it sees
My belly hanging, not in weight
Presenting life, but in ogive
Inevitable, the draw of greedy earth.
I now compete with women,
The children I remember being. Now
My grandmother’s hand slithers
From my sleeve. I want love.
I want my husband touching me
In public places—we can 
No longer clench with animal
Offhandedness—but he still wants whatever
It is I was, and that is always
Too soon over. I want Chicago
As it never really is, the long lines
There curving in a sea-storm 
Of spirals, the women, painters, the insane,
Fellow survivors of forbidden haunts of music.