Daughter, Driving at Night
I slide into bed, turn toward the curtains.
Outside, a clear midnight sky,
moon and dippers wheeling across
the galaxy. I begin to drift. A girl
shrieks, frenetic particles of sound,
her voice so piercing it might
have cracked the window. The cry
shivers the air again. I shake
myself, scramble to the front door—
silver dusting the silent walk,
stars’ bent ribs of light.
From the screened porch in back
katydids chant, crickets trill,
a tranquil night. Inside, my phone
jars the table—you’ve driven miles
beyond home, whisper of gas in the tank,
your signal too faint for digital maps,
and you can’t tell left from right
without Google. Parked on an unlit shoulder
you shudder, marvel that your call jostled
me awake. You don’t know the quake
of your need had already torn me from the sheets.
Annette Sisson lives and works in Nashville, TN. Her poems have appeared in Valparaiso PR, Birmingham PR, Glassworks, and Rust and Moth, among others. Her book Small Fish in High Branches was published in 2022 by Glass Lyre Press.
