Stacey
Mark drives the Mini over bridges,
the water under us
frozen and gray.
We pass sleepy summer towns,
boarded up
and hibernating.
The roads are lined with trees,
tall and stiff
as exclamation marks.
Mark’s face is completely closed,
his peppery stubble
dark and scratchy.
Way behind us, the rehearsal
is on, which means
I’m off the show.
On the back seat, my homework
lies untouched, my
marks are falling fast—
And in my mind the memory
of Mark’s affection
is fading faster.
Back home, my parents
are angry, begging
me to stay home.
Ahead of us, the mountains
are folded over,
brown and angry.
Under me, my fingers are crossed
as I pray we
won’t drive up them.