still looks only half asleep, glazed eyes
fixed at some scratch on the door.
Slumped upright, still: a small miracle
of equilibrium. You hope she stays
when you have to make a turn, or pull
into another lane while doing sixty-five;
and if she falls, better if it’s beneath
the seat, out of sight with the other things —
but she slides when you stop for the next light,
her earring clatters against the window
and tugs at her cheek; a small smear seeps
beside the press of skin and glass, leaks
to the pout-pinched corner of her mouth
and its giveaway breathing. Someone
stopped alongside you looks across
at the both of you, eyes wet and wide —
takes the first turn at the changing
of the light. You floor it a bit at the first
empty stretch of freeway, just enough
for her to fall inside and (but for the blood)
out of sight. It should’ve been that way
all along, if you’d just had the time.
September 2010