She was up front, said:
I had sex. I’m not a virgin now.
The ribs of the steering wheel
expanded, pressing into my grip.
So. She said.
On the windshield: dead insects and
dust thrown off bird wings at impact.
The guy. I said.
And we rode forth in single syllables
except for the word virgin, which fell
from her passenger-side window,
broke open against the shoulder.