by April Krassner
Circling around with Mathilda,
the little girl in the back seat,
curly, brown hair Buddha belly.
You know her? She’s always
back there, facing forward, arms
a-waving, Where are we going,
Mathilda and me? Nowhere at all,
Nowhere in particular—Good night,
Moon and now dusk. Good night
mailbox and street, good night,
and now light and dream and old
Tom’s husky voice waltzes us around
and around, the spins, turns
of the elegant evening drive. She
is lonely, Mathilda, lonely for the chorus,
the inner rhymes and reasons, lonely
for the suburban streets she left behind.
We are still crossing the river. Something
told us to go, to leave this bedroom town,
to go. Mathilda shrieks. Oh, the river,
good night. Good night Irene, Good night.
Mathilda waves goodbye.
April Krassner is a poet and essayist living in the New York area. She teaches writing at New York University to adult students who are seeking their undergraduate degrees. She received her MFA from Sarah Lawrence College quite a long time ago. Her work has appeared in Iconoclast, Poet Lore, Zing and, most recently, Anderbo.