Through that thrumming summer,
a tug of war waged in a hatchback,
a string of yeses pulled from a no.
The rear view mirrored the obvious--
the wrong choice always lets sorrow enter.
It persists like a hole under the scar’s layered skin.
You tell yourself it’s all over now, you’re healed.
The car’s been up on blocks for years, rusting
in the lot where you left it.
Arteries of stars smashed in a windshield,
the radio ripped out, wires dangling in your face
like a dare.
You open the door, though you’re in no mood for a ride.