Summer 1990 • Vol. XII No. 3 Poetry |

Learner’s Permit on Skyline Drive

We sit in back where we can't be caught in the nervous eyecorner. Four hands in her lap, one knotty ball. My fingers have been numb for miles. This is where we first learned to let go. And our son is taking us again along the spine of the Blue Ridge. The Olds drifts to the solid line white as a cloud, grinds in the gravel next to a low stone wall we will have to leap or penetrate to fly into the valley. On the road is all I will let myself say. October, the leaves all golden, the 5 p.m. light golden and clear in the windshield. A net of purple finches starts from the roadway as we swing from a curve. He slows to 30 on an uphill, hurtles to 50 down and into a turn I know will be our last. Stay on the road! she whispers as tires float to the grab of shoulder. Across the valley the mountains soften to gray folds. His frightened eyes in the mirror see only the blacktop snaking, falling, rising beyond the hood. Just relax, I say, my heart unclenching, sett

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Repairs

By Ron Smith

We sit in back where we can't be caught in the nervous eyecorner. Four hands in her lap, one knotty ball. My fingers have been numb for miles. This is […]

Oxford, 1975

By Ron Smith

We sit in back where we can't be caught in the nervous eyecorner. Four hands in her lap, one knotty ball. My fingers have been numb for miles. This is […]

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