That I would spend my life listening to five cassettes
while fighting the seatbelt of a blue Chevy Nova,

that Peter, Paul and Mary wrote their songs
with my mother in mind, and I was her lemon tree,

that the distant refineries lit up in the Texas night
were carnivals, and I could hear the delightful terror

of children’s screams from the tall slides, spiral chutes
and fiery stacks, that this dark joy was not meant for us,

that her quiet crying up front was just cedar fever,
the open window, Texas highways giving birth in reverse—

that we stood still, and the illusion of moving forward
was only night rushing backwards away from us,

that it was up to me to fix my eye on the few, distant
landmarks, that I could lasso those mile markers,

and, fist over fist, smoothly pull the boat of us home,
that Texas begot Texas begot Texas no matter how long,

or how far, that we would run out of gas and I would grow
old in that in-between place, that I would give birth

in the bluebonnets while their protracted cat-claws
midwived me, that Ladybird Johnson would arrive

and arrest me, make me leave my baby in the swath
of bloody bluebonnets, that coyotes would come

and lick her clean, that I would hear three beeps
then the cassette would click and start over again,

that my mother could never fall asleep at the wheel,
that she would never make an unexpected u-turn,

that she believed I was sleeping when she fixed herself
in the rearview and whispered okay baby, we’re home—

that, even now, if I closed my eyes and breathed slow
she would lift me up out of this car dark into dome light

into yard dark, into porch light, into hall dark,
into bath light, into bed dark, into night light.