Exhilaration. And speed. And curves. Gray
asphalt roads, older than any Sunday.
And dad’s dirt bike that came with its own scream
rising and falling with every gear change.
My brothers and I fought for the season's
first ride on that worn seat. In one quick move
dad kicked back, thrust the accelerator.
We hit the road, my arms slung around him
like no thing existed that could split us,
like there would never be a time when
saying I love you could feel awkward.
Love rises in me like a scream when I
think about the first ride on any warm
weekend, time disappearing with the heaves
in the road, the edgy years just ahead.
80 degrees and 80 miles per hour,
no helmet, no leather, sometimes no shoes,
the sky poured over us like a clear blue
waterfall. We, rushing wind on that old
road, the dirt bike shrieking between our knees.
asphalt roads, older than any Sunday.
And dad’s dirt bike that came with its own scream
rising and falling with every gear change.
My brothers and I fought for the season's
first ride on that worn seat. In one quick move
dad kicked back, thrust the accelerator.
We hit the road, my arms slung around him
like no thing existed that could split us,
like there would never be a time when
saying I love you could feel awkward.
Love rises in me like a scream when I
think about the first ride on any warm
weekend, time disappearing with the heaves
in the road, the edgy years just ahead.
80 degrees and 80 miles per hour,
no helmet, no leather, sometimes no shoes,
the sky poured over us like a clear blue
waterfall. We, rushing wind on that old
road, the dirt bike shrieking between our knees.
Published: Tidal Echoes, UAS Literary & Arts Journal 2008
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