top of page


Deborah Blakely 





Driving School 



Notebook, pinprick, elevator                       stopped on the first floor,


going all the way down.


In the backseat of the car


without headlights lies our demise:


a six pack of what have you got                      there ladies, and a document, belonging


to another person. I am that other person


most days; gasoline running through         the soft shell of my veins, collapsed


memories of beaches and dust, cigarette butts and MTA windows. On another day,


I might’ve followed               you


Back into that John Hughes movie,             but I already know


the end: panties displayed,


9th grade secrets on the stairwell, and Johnny Thunders


yet to play on my radio.  


Years                          later, I remember


your hardness. How it terrified me.     Like the cold, cold


beer in the bushes,               your eyes were popcorn,


I still wasn’t ready to drink.










bottom of page