Postcard Poem (8.15.10)

Driving through the dusk to my childhood home
I feel as though I could drop the "home." I'm driving
through the dusk to my childhood.
The past thirty years blink closed--
I'm twenty-one again, single, childless,
lonely. My childhood, too, is small,
a matyroushka doll
nested inside other dolls. The crescent moon
hangs orange and huge over the horizon.
Venus--an entire planet--is only one steady speck
of light. The moon is an eyelid.
Behind it, that's me, dreaming
that I'm driving through the dusk to my childhood.