The back door of the gray 1988 K car
is open like a surgery. Peeking, I saw her,
legs hooked around the backseat,
neck crunched, concentrating,
upside down, with a needle in her teeth,
sewing Christopher’s wee medal
into the bottom of the driver’s bucket seat.

When I was nineteen, she slipped
a pastel prayer card--the strapping lad,
rosy, with a staff and laughing baby--
under a pie for me to take to a new
year’s eve party. The guests laughed
at the superstitious sleight of hand,
but it was a dangerous day for driving.

A helpless fool worrywart doting.
Now, my Pagan across the Atlantic,
I see her point. I fear car wreck
will keep you from me, or a queer quarter
of the city will see you mugged--
how easy to turn to the man at the river
who has promised help, to ask for it.