April Salzano

Because Cars

have always been linked
to one man or another, Berettas and Camaros,
misogynists and masochists, Trans Ams
and sadists, she is leaving the cruise control off. Today
she is 41 automatically, but subtracts a few years manually.
Her hand trails smoke
from the car window, the stereo blares
various metal melodies, all referential, all-consuming.
She doesn’t want to get where
she is going, home,
the small yellow cape cod, awnings removed, mulch
shriveled to nearly nothing. Her grandmother
will initiate a game of twenty questions,
none of which she wants to answer, honestly:
what time she came in last night (she didn’t),
if she’s screwing the guy next door (she is),
if she thinks that’s a good idea when the last man
hasn’t even been washed off the sheets (she does).
She is determined to live, for once,
in this moment. Her phone vibrates its summons,
fingers fly against the law to keys,
type response (yes!). Cigarette stuck
between false teeth, the scaled elbow that looks more
like her father’s than her own takes the wheel.
The back of a pickup truck stopped at a red light
folds her front bumper like birthday wrapping paper.