I made it home early, only to get
Stalled in the driveway, swaying
At the wheel like a blind pianist caught in a tune
Meant for more than two hands playing.
The words were easy, crooned
by a young girl dying to feel alive, to discover
A pain majestic enough
To live by. I turned the air-conditioning off,
Leaned back to float on a film of sweat,
And listened to the sentiment:
Baby, where did our love go?--a lament
I greedily took in
Without a clue who my lover
Might be, or where to start looking.
Rita Frances Dove (Akron, Ohio, EEUU, 1952). Poeta, narradora, ensayista y editora. Premio Pulitzer de Poesía (1987). Poeta Laureado de la Biblioteca del Congreso (1993-95).