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Driving, 4 a.m. MAG
January 19, 2013
In the dark, with your hand
on the wheel,
bottle empty,
I could rest my head in the shade
of your neck. I could lace
your fingers with chipped nails
and forget
light bleeds over trees.
I could pretend your arms
don't unnerve me
the way they do,
and I don't mind the nicotine
when we inhale.
We're flying, sugar,
at cyanide dawn,
and won't stop till the crash
smothers sense.
© Hanna R., Milford, NJ
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