This is the only way I can love anyone anymore:
in circles of scorched rubber and metal,
my back a refraction out the open window,
an English Ivy hand strangling my neckline.
This time the hand is your hand, the white
knuckle panic too, your voice carrying over
manufactured wind; Aren’t you afraid of anything?
Of course. There are the standard things: rabid dogs,
the IRS, leaving the iron on, losing my credit card, my
keys, my mind, but there’s no one to put the fear of God
in me tonight. This is all about trust, as in: I trust
you’ll hold me tighter than any woman who’s come
before me. And we’ll call this love and laugh, choke on speed
and asphalt fumes, and after I abandon you, you’ll do
more dangerous shit—jay walk, have unprotected sex
with strangers, eat raw shellfish, Zumba—
and you’ll love it until you’re inevitably wounded. Then
you’ll curse my name. But we’re not there, not yet. I’m just
a sweet arc bathed in parking lot lights and you’ve never
been more excited. In a few minutes there will be no
tires; the polka will end. Last call then, a death wish skidding
off my tongue: Go faster baby, I just need you to go faster.