Momma is a Race Car Driver


By Trenda Berryhill

Memory jerks and spins
Grainy, scratched, a myriad of grays
Mississippi summertime hot
My mouth catches my windblown hair
Station wagon
Long like a submarine
Air burns
I cast a wary eye to Brother in the backseat
Momma’s mouth moves
Words like shrieking mice
Her knuckles on the wheel as white as her face is dark
She howls
She slams the accelerator to the floor
Dead man’s curve
My brother’s face
We will die
Tires crunch gravel
Car smoothes
I stumble from the car
Put away groceries
Momma pops the tab on a Diet Coke

“Words are ancient remedies, poultices for my broken brain. Living with bipolar requires coping strategies, and writing—along with painting—is my strongest ally.” – the poet

4 thoughts on “Momma is a Race Car Driver

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