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Occasional Swerve

by Dara Syrkin

A Lucky Park Production

Copyright © 2011 by Dara SyrkinAll rights reserved

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TracksOccasional Swerve.............................................................6Glimpse..............................................................................8Warrior with a Falsetto........................................................9Behind the Protection.......................................................10On the Phone Before Their Next Rides............................11Please Forgive Me...........................................................12No Curves........................................................................13Both Mirrors......................................................................14Counting Hawks...............................................................16One of the Family ............................................................18What If I Forget?...............................................................19

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Occasional SwerveGo ahead. Take a good look.

This ass rides on the back of a Harley. These jeans fling a leg over the black leather seat, cradle the man’s hips. These hands, in leather gloves, cup his waist, squeeze him on occasion. Leather to leather.

Your ass will need training to ride behind a Harley guy. Hundreds of miles of bumpy road. The occasional swerve.

Think. About how smart you were to buy good sunglasses, sunscreen, and moisturizer. How you’ll conceal hair melted beneath a helmet. How tough you look in those boots. Think about the next poem you’ll write or how your ailing mom is doing.

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Or how much it hurts when she doubts you. And how much it must hurt when you doubt her.

No. Stop.

Go back to the sheer joy of wind. Cirrus clouds. Moon glow. Bear Butte. Cradling hips. His coppery beard gleaming in the sun.

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GlimpseImagine this:The driver releases the grip of the motorcyclereaches back to touch what he can of you.

At sixty miles per hourfellow travelers might misstheir chance to be voyeurs. Get a sideways glimpse of desire. Envy the danger of need.

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Warrior with a FalsettoMy Harley-guy friendlistens to James Blunt—soldier turned singer, warrior with a falsetto.

My friendwon’t let himself cry.He believes if he opens the flood gateshe will drown.

After my mom diedhe held out an open armto this weeping, middle-aged friend, let me crawl in his laplike the frightened child I was.

When the time comes,will my lap be ready to hold him?Will he let me?Will we drown?

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Behind the ProtectionThe full-face helmet,now cut in half,was passed around the room,used as an example.

In the motorcycle safety classwe could see the dense foam innardsand hard, but thin, shell outside.

When it was whole, the helmethad been worn by our instructor’s brotherwhen he crashed. The helmet showed little sign of impact. The brother’s head survived.“He still broke his nose,” the instructor said.

We could see the science behind the protection.We couldn’t see the fear.Only the relief.

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On the Phone Before Their Next RidesShe said to him what she most wanted to hear.

Wish you were here. Right now.You’re gorgeous.I love you. Put on your helmet.

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Please Forgive MeWe brought our coffee to the shop’s outdoor table.

How rude, I thoughtas he looked away from our conversation.

He nearly stopped midsentenceto look at each motorcycle driving by.

Is he listening to meor just the rumble?

Then I got my own bike.

I’m listening. Really, I am.

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No CurvesShe said No curves. I only like to pass when I can see for miles.

So many variables:road conditionvehicle powermotorists’ wisdom.

When to accelerate.How to gather faith.

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Both MirrorsShe’s been immortalized in murals, photos, and country western songsEven you’ve sung“When you got a girlon the back of your bike…” You’ve felt her heartbeather fingertips at your neckher fatigue her rage. What happens to youwhen she wants the scenery to changerides awayon her own bikemaybe yours?

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Your imagestraddling the yellow lineshrinkingin both mirrors.

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Counting HawksMy dad counted hawkson telephone polesfence railsin trees on power linesalong the thousands of milesof his sales route.

I took up Dad’s habitas I traveledfrom Minnesota to Texasto reach my friend. I always had a hawk tally to tell him about.

When I swung off the back of his bike one day,my friend said“Did you see that huge hawk back there on the left?”

I had only seen hawks on our right.

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We had both used Dad’s methodof marking miles,thoughts tumbling in the company of our own hawks.

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One of the Family He told me he wanted to ride a motorcyclesimply to be the guy who does that cool, usually two-fingers-at-your-side greetingthat bikers do. But, as he demonstrated his longing, a desire to be part of the family, one of the accepted,he used the wrong hand.

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What If I Forget?What if I forget the smell of your leather jacketwhat it's like to squeeze your hips with my thighsas the motorcycle goes over a bump?(Can you remember the warmth of my hands on your shoulders?At your waist?)

Did I really tug your earlobeor just wish it?

What color are your sunglasses?Red. Of course.

What if I can't picturethat one angled tooth in your grinhow you hold your fists to your hipswhen you’re thinking?

What if I don’t get another chanceto read your mind

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push you to spit outwhat’s bouncing around in your brain?

What if I forget what it’s like to be your shadow?

What if I can’t rememberhow safe my name is in your mouth?

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DARA SYRKIN is devoted to blue highways, two-wheeled vehicles,

and the power of seeds.

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