Sylvie Balance
Knox sleeps all the way downstate, and I worry a bit
until I remember that his body’s still healing.
Watch his inhale, exhale, match it, watch
the mile markers stream by to the time
of our breathing. I put on some quiet Bach
because it makes my mind feel organized,
reminds me of discipline, hours spent practicing
those inventions at the piano, lost to it—at the Indiana border
I sit up, calm now. Temptation to test the feeling,
interrogate it, fret that it’ll pass. Maybe it’ll stay,
sure and strong as this boy beside me. Outside a station wagon
keeps our pace, looks like a bird tucking in
its wings. I notice myself noticing it. The sleepy Chevys,
the reflective Rest Area signs, the world
washing in and over me. Knox snores, I laugh,
the Bach ticks on. Contrapunctus:
a word from Music Theory II, meaning
note against note, both hands bearing
equal weight. This Bach feels good in my bones,
but I turn on Taylor Swift so I can sing.