Tiger on the Shoulder

We didn’t know my mother was driving

back to her childhood, with a ring

of keys, a compass, and a tiger

panting in the back seat. Soon enough

the tiger was behind the wheel, circling.

And each circle spun further and

further away from us. When she calls,

the tiger has parked the yellow-striped taxi

on the highway’s rough shoulder. It’s time,

she says, for this dream to be over. Time

to go home, sleep in her own bed.

If the compass ever worked, she’s forgotten

how to read it, and the ring for the keys

is broken, the keys melted down

for their metal. If I would just call someone

and tell him where she is. She has money —

she can pay someone to drive her home.

If only a road sign were in sight, but no, there’s

only scattered chert and farmland

and a man across the road who is not my father.

Behind the wheel the hungry tiger’s

yellow eyes are slightly open. Behind the wheel

the tiger snacks on the summer of 1970 and

the entire works of Iris Murdoch.

Caught in his teeth are recipes for chocolate mousse

and coq au vin, my brother’s first arrest, the one-

room schoolroom where her mother taught.

So who to call? The tiger, sated for the nonce,

has started snoring. The quick drive by,

today disguised as children. The tiger snores away.