Thursday, 21 February 2019

What I mean when I say Car Seat

by Sarah Thursday

I held your
five-year-old hand
across the upholstered seat
and our thumbs lock like
you mean to keep me safe
like I am the cup
on the dashboard waiting
for brake lights
to shove me forward
you are holding me
from shattering windshields
from this car-
carriage crushed steel
we’re tumbling around
and around but not
really moving, not
actually cracking glass
I got your fingers and thumb
curled into mine
but I can’t hold on after
you outgrew your car seat
you outgrew the backseat
outgrew our hand-holding
me protecting you protecting me

* * * * *

Sarah Thursday, in addition to writing poetry, co-hosted 2nd Mondays Poetry Party, ran a poetry website called, and founded Sadie Girl Press as a way to help publish local and emerging poets and artists. She has been published in many fine journals and anthologies, interviewed by Poetry LA, and received a 2017 Best of the Net nomination for “To the Men who told me my Love was not enough.” Her newest poetry book, Conversations with Gravel, is available at Find and follow her to learn more on, Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.   

1 comment:

  1. The mounting, accelerating, love-mingled, mixed-tense tension is barely bearable. Left me gasping.