have you ever driven through
a fog so thick that you can part it
with your fingers? a fog so dense
that you stick your hand through
the car window and watch it disappear?
these special fogs press
heavy on your eyes and ears,
fill the dips of your collarbone,
quiet the murmurs living
inside your throat.
before i drove through this mountain
and through this fog there were bills
to pay and children to teach, people
i hated and people i loved. there were mental
disorders and electrocardiograms. fears.
now there is only the positioning
of my hands. a steering wheel. a whisper
in my ear that says "drive carefully."
a cliff and a guardrail.
now there is fog.
and maybe, if i wish hard enough,
the fog will keep me.
i am not afraid of dying.
i am just afraid.