By Erin Matheson Ritchie
Night yawns and swallows the Mustang whole as I step
into the backseat and close my eyes through
her unpracticed touch, my spine contouring a final lie as the back
windows shatter. My God, how anyone could be straight
under a coal-charred moon a final drive, her chin
tucked into mine – twin precision engines built to flare up
and fizzle out, but we flip in a wreck that demands eyes,
witnesses, wagging tongues eager to pick our bones from the open
wreckage, peel our tights from trembling legs, staunch the heart
howling for another lap as her passenger, a future for us alive and loud.