As we hurtle down the highway
in your beaten Ford Fusion,
I count every scar on your arm.
Speedometer’s needle teeters
over eighty-five.
I begin to watch them bleed
into the evening.

We careen from the land of streetlights
to a back road lit by the orange dusk.
Slithering up into the sunroof,
you drive down the road like a wild snake.
Pale, white legs show bruises
from bluish spots to violet
vessels.
Your skin resembles
the hottest of a fire.
Still, you race on toward
the setting sun.

The day dies.
Tires screech to a stop
on the gravel leading to a
house on the slough.
Backs slam against the seats,
but only one of us flinches.
You turn the key
and grit your teeth.
A false strength
pulls you out the car.
I know your pain –
it boils just behind
that stoic smile.
Your cold eyes glance
across the lake,
a soft ache that I sense.
Scorpions and black widows
and the cottonmouth’s bite
compares none
to that of a poisoned heart:
pretending sticks and stones
won’t break your bones
will leave sweet love to hurt you.
It pretends to be your
anti-venom.

I give you a hug
and say, “I love you.”
My amicable relation
can do nothing
to mend your wounds.
Perhaps I’ll ease the
inflammation
as you tell me your dreams,
screaming about her
by the water’s green light.