Sense of Direction

She navigates. He drives.

It’s been this way

for years. She carries a map

inside her head,

a map of everywhere

they’ve driven to

in all their married lives.

Houses from long ago

they never ended up living in,

gutters where they parked and dreamed

a life that never came to pass,

rental applications rejected,

later, the selling price

always too high.

She remembers

the shapes the street trees made

in distant suburbs

they drove through

to visit old friends

whose names she can’t recall.

No matter how many times

they take a route, he has no

sense of direction,

no language for it even,

while she

can rise like a bird

above the city

see it stretched

before her, behind her

flattening mountains to sea

into the grey lines

of the map on her knee.

He chews gums while he drives

and beeps all the bikes

and says he knows where he’s going

though he has no clue.

Sometimes she gets distracted

by the rhythm of the street names out the window:

Inverness, Maude, Birdwood, Kitchener.

Sometimes there is an imperfect pause between

giving directions

and taking them.

Sometimes she says left

when she means right.

She can steer them back again

along new roads.

From anywhere in the city

she can point towards home.