lurking

There is a poem here surely, lurking under the dusty
floor coverings in the car, the dented recyclables still
swishing half-inches of water, the windshield thickened
with bugs from the long drive. Behind the jostled luggage
there must be a map folded on its corners, and the blanket
thrown to camouflage the valuables continues its guardianship,
regardless of the dust. Despite the clutter, something of beauty
must be resting in this worn place, keeping its shape, stubborn
with the certainty that it has not buckled under, not even
when the sky was shuddering with thunderstorms, or loss
raked through with sharp, indelicate fingers. The downed leaves
on the road make a fine weave, even as these wheels eviscerate
and scatter them. And I know, in the driver’s seat, though I am
barreling on, eyes on some fresh horizon, there is a soft pocket
of my body holding a memory from which it refuses divorce.
A June day full of sweat and happiness.
Pomegranate seeds fed, one by one, into an open mouth.
Love twinkling with its first sentence.
There is a poem here surely, lurking beneath and behind
the jewel coin ground into the cushions of the back seat.
But the poem is also that seat, those dented bottles, the bag
cresting with laundry. It is the map and the mess,
and I am in them both, slipping among the creases,
fumbling with desire to find my way
and at the same time,
to lose sight of it completely.