Blame the pickup
in my rear view—
how could I brake
or swerve?
It was like steering downhill
on ice, eyes straight,
the whole body
insisting No!
as the car crunched
comfortably
over the ribs—
and then rolled away
down Powderhouse,
past that pond
I wish were
mine: its silver
skin outstretched between
woods and driveway.
Merrill Oliver Douglas studied in the writing program at Sarah Lawrence College, and she earned an MA in English from Binghamton University in 1982. Her most recent publications are in A Narrow Fellow, Connotation Press: An Online Artifact, Barrow Street and San Pedro River Review. She lives near Binghamton, N.Y., where she runs a freelance writing business.
Eunoia Review 
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