Mood: Weary
Drinking: Empty
On the way to the airport
we speak of miscellany
and etcetera
in fits and starts.
I tell him Brandy
killed a man. We
both shrug. She’s not
a real girl anyway.
There is such a silence
before sunup
even on the freeway.
Cars creep along carefully
flashing caution-colored
yellows before crossing
the line. Caffeine has not yet
been consumed
in appropriate quantities.
So this might just
all be a dream anyway,
thick and non-linear.
When I pull away from
the curb, his kiss
has barely left a mark.
I practice all
the usual hoodoo,
visualizing the crash,
the flames and lost limbs.
(It is the only way
to keep him safe.)
Imagining the worst
prevents it from coming true.
Keeps me from
waking up. When
I finally get home
I have no recollection
of how I got there.
-Lo, who is old enough to believe in jinxes.
LaDonnaWitmer 