somewhere (a sestina)

It always takes two buses—

some 50 cents fare one way.

When I disembark I always walk

slowly, stumble down the still-moving steps onto uneven

cement, dry, iceburg-cracked sidewalks of the road,

inching downward, as though descending gingerly—reluctantly—into hell.

Not that its hell,

really, but the bus

isalwayscrowded,andIrarelygetaseatandtheroad

isalways,alwaysupwardandtheway

isalwayswindingandIalwaystopple,uneven

heavy steps, landing on heavy legs, learning to walk.

In circles, learning to walk

but crookedly, driven hell-bent for hell,

because I never learned the difference between even and uneven,

(whatever that means); and so I board the bus

heedless of direction, and whichever way

it goes, I go. And whichever road

it takes, I take. And now I’m going north; this road

I thought was going nowhere, this aimless walk

south, down; this underbelly, this descent, this damned, unholy way

this body bent for hell

this disrepair, this bus

bouncing north unevenly,

bouncing me unevenly,

and be it wandering—however wandering—this road

is going home. And so I take the bus,

and then, for a while, I walk.

I pass through hell

—but briefly—(hell is on the way … )

And finally, I know I'm going right, my way.

Because of you: because of your uneven

scrambling, your demands, my children; because you sometimes gave me hell.

Because you were the road;

and because you made me walk

the plank, your waxy yellow fingers scorched my burning feet. And I wanted to take the bus

to nowhere, but I didn’t. I took it to you.