by Cortney Cordero

He kept his Rubik’s cube in the center console
to solve as he drove.
A dangerous multitask.
I, from the passenger side,
was in charge of the navigation.
A questionable lapse in judgement
since I have a poor sense of direction.

His hands would fly over colors:
red, blue, green, orange, yellow, white.
I’d watch him quiz them out
Almost as quickly as the lines in the road.
We should have been more worried
that no one was watching
and his knees were steadying the steering wheel.

All the while, I was trying to figure out my Rubik’s boy.
Trying to make sense of his colors:
jazz, poetry, philosophy, Applebee’s, puzzles, and tea.
I’d turn his sides over and over,
trying to sort, trying to solve,
how to fascinate him.

But the more I tried to spin,
the quicker his pieces fell apart and into my lap.
We met in the winter
He was gone before the snow melted.
I swept up the pieces, but couldn’t
bring myself to throw them out.

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