Driving Home From Mother’s House: A Poem

As I drove through the bower
of old oak trees
scanning 68th and 20th avenues northeast
I was scared by the moon.
It was so low in the sky that night
I thought it would smack me in the face.
I tried to turn the wipers on,
but strands of hair white as paste
covered the window like thick rain.
A woman's mouth stretched open
in a silent scream. Bent fingers clawed
until they reached my chest.
Some nights I lose my way home.

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