by Maria Victoria Biancardi
The car is
We are paused
along a road severe,
but we careen in silence.
We fade into dark asphalt,
water to our calves, elbows—
through currents of gasoline, exhaust.
The waves of highway surf, impermeable.
A garbage can floating in the shallow stream,
mud, lapping the shores of a parking lot, the ATM.
And back from our day jobs, the night can be daunting.
We unfurl. We veer into the zephyr, anchor at every stoplight.
There, in hiatus. There, deaf and virescent in the lull of streetlamps.
There, on the corner, it’s tempting to slip away. Capsize where we are
not rushed, asleep in the undertow, leaving no wake.