Barbara Helfgott Hyett



No road signs, no instructions
in the glove compartment, no
way to shift into reverse

the rented Renault. The moon
is full and screaming Orange
over onion fields. The sky—

not black exactly—mottled
like a dog. There seem to be
ditches ahead on both sides.

I could read, by the visor’s
tidy lamp, unreadable
maps. I could try singing, or

eat dried apples from the bag,
but real Danger’s too thin to
swing around—think dancing, think

dandelions come up through
a sidewalk crack, despite the odds.
Isn’t it possible for

things to come out right? Maybe
someone’s set out to find me!
Are those lights in the distance

as steady as stars? Think stars
before there was cosmos. Who
has not been lost in this world?

for Wendy Drexler



Published in the Hudson Review