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  • Jessica Urlichs

Drives & Naps




I drive down streets I’ve never seen before while they sleep.

I’ve lived here my whole life, but I’ve missed the avenues veins.

I’m tired and meanwhile the world convinces me I should be doing more.

But I need the silence, I need these unfamiliar streets.

I need to continue a thought, and right now I can.


Like how we pick apart the bones of a mother until we collapse under the weight of it all.

I keep driving.

They keep sleeping.


Like how we don’t talk about the loneliness sometimes, how the vines of it thicken around our days.


Like how my head is above water now, but somehow I’m busier than ever, a type of busy I would never change, except I would wash my hair more.

Just sleep a little longer.


Like how songs are time machines and I hope their eyes will be the notes of my memories.


Like how this is living, we don’t start again tomorrow, each moment belongs, even this one.

The rain comes.


I realise when I drive, the rear view mirror is always tilted so I can still see their faces slightly.

Like every thought, I see them.

Every decision, I see them.

My reflection, them.

I make a turn towards home when the trees start groaning.


I smile as one of them opens their eyes.

I smile because I’m a little more whole again.

I smile because even as they sleep, they show me things I’ve never seen.

Even if today it’s just overgrown lawns down new streets.


***

Have you shopped the early motherhood poetry collection yet? Click here

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