Before We Become Lovers

by Christine Nichols

Days go by and I think again -
I should turn.
But I pull against the lean.

What would happen if I cast
my eyes like fishing line and
the rest of me followed;

If I moved the steering wheel
down the curve of crusher run,
to what beyond?

Would hard tires drift off the highway,
transform to boggy balloons, and
bow around sharp gravel teeth?

What if this car crunched up the yards
a prehistoric dinosaur,
lizard like, arch and release.

I can almost taste the hot stone dust,
See it billow plaster, film on the hood,
grit the wiper.

But I drive by and know
I will likely die before I find out
what is down there.

The Trollop Goes Fishing

by Christine Nichols

At nineteen, I made a fisherman.
Your nuclear perfection
needed to be mine.

Smooth skin unstretched
unlike your growing womb,
dangled a silver lure.

I picked up a red mini skirt,
played a game of peek a boo,
and one of hide and seek.

He fell for the glossed promise
of uncharted territory
for a while.

But in the end he was
less perfect for the journey
And I sent him back
to you.