driving


i.

he drove us to a poetry group reading 

in san jose.  the house, just off the main road, 
had a large yard with trees like those i remember
in tennessee, when i was a kid.  inside, a crowd 

packed the once-sufficient space.  all kinds: 
straight-laced; late sixties-children born
into an era of cynicism; college kids

from middle-class backgrounds: fucked, but 
superficial as their death smoke.  they 
sat on cushions or couches, conversing

with strangers, fuming and kissing.  he and i 
settled in a corner as food and drink circulated 
and candles were lit to illuminate faces, cult-like,

journals, and sheets of paper.  in the dimness, 
we would sketch our shelled hearts, one after another,
soldiers marching towards an imaginary war; the auxiliaries 

composed of expelled breaths of sympathy.  we all 
walk the battleline of pain.  halfway through,
he walks out.  i pause, before chasing.  i

find him striding down the overgrown, tree-shaded 
sidewalk.  "what's wrong?" i ask.  he writhes,
then says "they're ignoring me."  i know this line, 

however far-fetched, too well.  as a fisher gently teasing 
in the reluctant catch, i quell him.  "you haven't read 
anything yet.  they're ignoring everyone."  "..."  until he 

says, "ok, i'll go back."  when his round comes, he reads, 
and receives expelled breaths of sympathy.  later, at break 
people talk to him, though he tells me, "it's all the same.  

nobody pays any attention to me."  i want to open his head 
and adjust the contrast.  halfway again, he leaves.  i pause,
then follow.  this time he's not on the sidewalk.  he's not

walking into some unreasonable distance.  in fact, he's 
sitting stony in the car, like a garden piece, except
i wish he were as peaceful.  "i can't stand it," he 

says.  "nobody likes me."  "well, i do."  and at that point, 
this is still true.  he starts to cry.  and god, though
i reach my arms around him, i hate this crying.  it's

not the ordinary kind that comes from sadness.  it's
the kind that comes from his id wanting to drain 
my vitality like a vampire.  and i still have enough

patience to exude optimism like a good kiln in the
winter.  "you're ok, really."  he is a heavy ceramic, 
but eventually he warms.  i need to go back, get my

coat, and apologize for his hasty exit.  apologies.
always apologies.  the dark room is quiet, like
a memorial service.  the ordeal is over, and once 

more, i am driving home.



--jennifer crystal chien