we fly south in a hulking black bird—
the nose dusted grey and the top powdered white;
he drives, so silent, until he smiles at me
and asks if I’m all right,
but he knows there’s nothing to say;
I toss my head and sigh.
we drive along in our big black bird,
ever haunting the highway.

we find a motel and sleep for a while—
we’ll sleep, we’re sleeping, we slept;
he tries to hold my hand.

And the next day it’s the same;
he pretends to understand.
so we stop at flashing lights
and once I ask what’s going on.
he stares at me: I’ve punch him in the gut
and I stare past him and remember:

I was unaware, alone, blissfully numb;
indifferent to the silence
and someone appeared: I found myself engulfed
in an embrace too tight.
he said a name and I pushed away,
unfamiliar with his voice.
“my darling,” he said, “I’ve missed you so,”
but I didn’t know his face.
he looked at me so longingly, so hopeful
and I pulled away.

somehow he’s taken me away—
somewhere south on route 80—
here it’s just we two: burned and hacked and
spliced together.
and he tries to take my hand:
I pull away and turn the radio on
and she sings,
“I’m not the angel from your nightmare;
I’m not the one who haunts your dreams…”
and I sing at the top of my lungs.

he stares at me and I look past his eyes,
past his mouth, down his throat,
down to the hollow of his chest.
And there I see his bruised heart,
mourning me.

“what do you want?” he asks,
and I say I don’t know
I don’t know
I don’t know
and things begin to spin,
and I scream: there’s no hands on the wheel
as we spiral down to crash upon the sand
and the blood of a big black bird stains the snow.