WEBVTT

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"A Woman Walking on the Road."

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We were in the car.

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We were heading
home when Christian,

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with his wholly American
name and manic chatter,

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told his girlfriend
the woman we saw

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walking on the road
with no umbrella

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was a symbol of torment.

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We were in the backseat.

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You, with that face, making
the windows and the Black world

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beyond the windows beautiful,
the roadside figure

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of a woman in the
rain beautiful.

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And I knew later I'd be
writing these lines, caught

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in that space between
personal and public--

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a woman's torment,
or symbol of it,

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and our love, and God
damn everybody's sins

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scribbled here for show.

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We were in the car heading
home when Christian

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said the woman on
the road was probably

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fresh from a fight
with her husband.

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But he didn't say his fists gave
his last girlfriend bruises.

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And I didn't say it either.

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The woman walking on the road
was walking on the shoulder

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and meant something
different and utterly

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the same to each of us.

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Her lit up life and husband
left looking from a window,

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as I have looked from
a window, guilty.

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But guilt ain't
nobody's business.

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We were in the car.

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We saw a woman
walking on the road.

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There was a woman who,
after our quarrels,

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would steal my car,
a little blue Datsun

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with a dented fender.

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She would drive from our dorm
to the blank streets of the town

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we lived in.

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She'd drive past the empty
classrooms, the soccer field,

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to God knows where.

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And I wanted her then away
from me, two red lights,

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a tired engine leaving smoke.

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But one night, I groped in
the darkness beneath my hood

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until I disconnected something.

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And if there is such a thing
as malice, that was it,

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a man sabotaging his own car
so his lover couldn't run.

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I'm shaking my head, because I
want to say I am different now,

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like Christian, someone
with a new face beside him

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and a pain no one can see,
perhaps, settled in his chest.

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Your new face beside me.

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I am damaged.

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I have bruised.

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We fought over something
stupid, and she came so close

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I knew she could smell my blood.

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Have I come far enough
to say I hit her,

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to say my hand left
a cloud on her cheek?

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Have I come far enough
to say, I'm sorry?

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We were in the car.

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You, with that face, making
the windows and the world

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beyond the windows real, the
figure of a woman on the road

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telling the truth.

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Once in my small brutal past,
a woman left me, walked from my

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lit up fingers to the street
with a storm on her face.

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It was raining.

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I watched from the window
and could not follow.

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My car sat in the
lot, disconnected,

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unopened, unmoved.

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So we can circle back to
what's going on in that.

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