when we were riding
By Sarah Harste


in the car   early morning
light digging its way
out of the horizon
i always waited for it      you
the kind of driver
who never has two hands
on the wheel   never turns
on the radio

           me   the kind of passenger
who hopes you will notice goose bumps
instead of asking
for rolled-up windows

you are not quite out of love:
the room of your marriage still
contains a window

                        apart from you
i can see only our headlights on the road   two
egg yolks spilling over black
oozing further in front of us
my back-pack is lost
in the dashboard’s shadow    though i feel
it sandwiched between my shivering
legs

you don’t need a word-filled silence
mom says you only open up
your mouth when it comes
to cigarettes
                                   but i think you’re weary
of the way words unfold     tap cracks
into windowsills

                                              i wait for this moment
every morning
when you drive us
across the bridge
                                                            breath held in the swallows
of my throat   hope-
ful for a lake
still sleeping

you speak quiet appreciation of
the surface that slumbers undisturbed
“sarah”    finger pointing at rippleless
water   “see how the lake looks
like a sheet of glass”    we are astounded
by a thing so unbroken

once we leave the bridge    hiccupping horns
weaving vehicles   my permission form
demanding a signature

and for the rest            of the day
the sound of glass chipping away

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