Roadblock Poem by Rachel Hadas

Call me the bee buzzing in the museum.
The younger sister fussing through a house
still stiff with loss.
The meddling goblin in the mausoleum.
My dream: with three in the front seat, we drive
under a bridge and halt. A huge gray bus
blocks the whole road, including us,
the only travelers who are left alive.
It's drizzling; the windshield wiper blades
busily gesture, yet we're nearly blind.
You two seem not to mind
blank windows, pulled-down shades.
I mind. I want to get out and explore,
to move around
the deathly obstacle. "Don't make a sound,"
you say. (Who are you?) "Don't go near that door."
Our mountain drive last month—that wasn't dreamed.
We three again. We ran a dog down. I
alone looked back, alone let out a cry.
I saw it lying in its blood and screamed.
So tell me what these images portend.
Am I a noisy bird of evil omen
or just a person, apprehensive, human,
moving ahead, kid sister into woman,
stonewalled by death each time she rounds a bend?