POEM A DAY 4: How women lose their way
By Almeda Glenn Miller
The keys in the ignition don’t work, the children in the back seat are speaking a different language and come to think of it the upholstery is a different shade of grey. The man tapping on the window and pointing at the children is not my husband. There has been a storm and magnetic north has shifted a couple of degrees to the east. I tell the children in the backseat that their real parents will be here shortly. I tell them about the lump in my breast and how I know it is an alien. I am aware this is aggressive. I need to find the button or lever that unlocks the door. I need to get out of this car. By now the father of these children has his arms crossed and he’s looking angry. When I finally figure out the latch and get out of the car and the children’s father hands me my coffee mug and grocery bags I had placed on the roof while searching for my keys, the children in the backseat are screaming. With both arms full of grocery bags and my coffee mug hooked through an index finger I head down the street where I suddenly remember I parked my real car with my real kid and her real father but my big girl panties are sliding down my ass, then they slide all the way down around my ankles so I step out of them, turn the corner, and disappear into the light.
Almeda Glenn Miller is a Rossland-based writer, performer, and teacher. All through April the Telegraph will be featuring a poem a day in honour of National Poetry Month.
