A live wire spit and thrashed over the cab.
The daylight was another goner; it slid
behind a hill, beyond that field and night
was the hup-hup of a motorcycle, the strange
call of a foreign bird. We spent all night
stuck in the cab, smelling cigarettes
smoked weeks ago, deciding if we wanted
each other, if we’d die by morning.
My game was: make myself smaller,
turn into the damp vinyl seat. Stay awake.
When I woke, you were trying to get us
out. If the glass were diamonds. If the blood
were water. If the boot was a hand on my forehead.
Then, I had to see your body, dead
on the hood, half in and half out
of the broken windshield. I could not touch you,
and the second day became another country.