between scylla and charybdis

somewhere between ole miss
and the great divide, she meditates
upon a prairie so painfully flat
that occasional promises of
unlimited visibility won’t settle
180˚ of dust.

she was never the say-no type, never
to ask herself if this wine or that film
mattered, what station she might
prefer, which side of the bed.

to a point,
then
stamping her foot like an impatient child.

when the decision you regret coalesces
into months and years, you begin the cold bargaining
of a condemned criminal.

she tells herself if she just keeps looking,
the answer will appear, like David, supposedly
hidden in cold marble, her masterpiece waiting
while she chips away the errant rage
between every sunset and sunrise.