The Moya View

Passion’s Cursive Highway


It starts with the line, an upwards curlicue,

the noose flapping rightwards in the wind,

at the top of the curl, an afterthought,

because every line needs a curve and a loop

to follow the road set to the next ones beginning,

less it turn in on itself, circle about,

or start and end nowhere.


The next road is not a road,

but an interchange, connected

curve flowing at the bottom,

arching outward to the top,

to half the height, straining

to touch the loop behind

and just above, falling

in an outward curve

that delivers the scribbled

start that is the highway

of their journey.


Their highway starts in swagger,

they thinking it’s straight

but it really swerves and swerves,

she existing in the sedan

of soul and soothing blissful union,

he riding in the open convertible

the slapping wind of sex, sin

and self his indulgent mantra,

the rolling curves of the highway

unfolding, a striking rattlesnake

pushing them together in

a union of fear and death

stuck half in trust and mistrust.


They exit the highway their auto

in the fleeting traffic streaming by

an unnoticed sensible sedan, SUV,

minivan amidst the flashier styles

until a passing train forces a stop

at the gate till the arms clear

and the red lights stop flashing

and they can continue the little ways

to the incline street that halts

period, at the dead end that is their

garage and two story home.


Everyday they drive in and out

of the interchange that is

their two kids, two cars,

back and forth from shopping,

home, work, garage to garage,

other stories and two story house,

she practicing, and refining the

upward curve outward slope

that is her harmonious devotion

to perfecting the craft of family life,

he to the obsessive dedication of

work, promotion, goals, achievement.


At the up stroke, halfway to the end,

he crashed and she was there

to pick up the pieces and give him

her half of the inward flexing n,

loosening the noose to fly in the wind,

finally uniting their divided passions

into not a marriage but a union

that respected the middle ground

they had created with each other

and the true real love that was there.





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The Forgetting
The Plains Weavers
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