driving at night (alone)

it’s said that we don’t choose
who we love, but I disagree.
or maybe choice is an illusion,

a night-colored train streaking
over the highway. it beelines
toward the moon, who’s

lit up and singing drunk.
the canopy of trees that
hold the railroad bridge

could be moon-bathed or
snow-dipped, depending
on the temperature of air

the car bends apart as it
winds over a mountain
that tucks Tennessee’s

deepest corner into bed
with Georgia.
the windows are up,

so I can’t tell the season.
or maybe time is an illusion,
glowing headlights in

the black river of I-24,
not seen by the one who’s
driving, but witnessed

as a pair of red comets
by people on porches
set back from the road.


by Irène Mathieu

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Irène Mathieu is a writer and medical student at Vanderbilt University. Before medical school, she studied International Relations at the College of William and Mary and completed a Fulbright Fellowship in the Dominican Republic. Irène’s poetry, prose, and photography can be found in a diverse array of publications, including The Caribbean Writer, The Meadowland Review, Sole Literary Journal, Protest Poems, the Lindenwood Review, Muzzle Magazine, Magnapoets, Damselfly Press, Hinchas de Poesia, OVS Magazine, qarrtsiluni, Tabula Rasa, Extract(s), So to Speak, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Journal of General Internal Medicine, Love Insha'Allah, and more. Her poetry chapbook entitled the galaxy of origins is forthcoming in 2014 from Dancing Girl Press. She plans to pursue a career in community-engaged primary care, global health policy, and creative writing. You can read her blog.