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I once wrote of Marge Saiser's poetry that she writes better poems about love than anyone I know. In this poem the love is standing off to the side, looking on, but it's there. Marge Saiser lives in Nebraska, and her most recent book of poetry is The Woman in the Moon (The Backwaters Press, 2018).

He Taught Me to Drive

The road wasn't a proper road; it was

two ruts across a pasture and down

into a dry creek bed and up

the other side, a cow path really,

soft sand up to the hub caps.

You didn't gun it at the right time,

he said. I knew that before he

said it, but I didn't know how to get

the old Chevrolet out of the crevice

I had wedged it into. You'll figure it out,

he said, and then he took a walk,

left me to my own devices, which until

that moment had included tears.

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My face remained nearly dry,

as was the gas tank when he finally

returned, took a shovel out of the trunk,

and moved enough sand from around

the rear tires so he could rock

back and forth and get a little traction.

That country had very little traction;

it had mourning doves, which lay their eggs

on the ground, a few twigs for a nest,

no fluff. Mourning dove. Even the name

sounds soft. Even the notes they coo,

perched on a fence wire. But they are

hatched on the dirt. When they leave the shell,

the wind is already blowing their feathers dry.

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Poem reprinted by permission. Weekly column made possible by The Poetry Foundation, Library of Congress and Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Unsolicited manuscripts not accepted.

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