I lived in the city, driving a car
was not part of my life.
But I was licensed, held that power.
Then I moved to a place without sidewalks.
Enslaved to the car, driving miles
to work and back, I grew smitten
with my route-- quiet inlets and
weather-beaten coastal villages
where people fished for a livelihood,
long season of flowering crape myrtle trees,
their elegant rose-red clusters.
I drove confident, fast
on narrow two-lane roads.
On one hurried trip
as my car drilled its path forward
I noticed the small white dog ahead,
tentative on the roadside, hoped
it would stay there--my speed
beyond being able to stop
or swerve. I watched the dog
make a run to cross the road
while I flashed through space.
The thud was loud, murderous.
I did not slow down,
mutely drove the same route
for months, in shame and fear
until I moved back,
resumed a simpler city life.
poetry chapbook, The Music Behind Me, was published in 2012. Recent poems are in Riverbabble, Mom Egg Review, Hospital Drive, Front Porch Review, and forthcoming in Connecticut River Review. Retired from the full-time faculty at NYU School of Medicine, she is now adjunct faculty in the Department of Medicine's Division of Medical Humanities. She founded the Literature, Arts, and Medicine Database, an online resource for teaching and scholarship in medical humanities and is on the editorial boards of Bellevue Literary Review and Literature and Medicine. www.feliceaull.com