Black Ice

Each car fanning off, right and left,

                                 is a different disaster. The headlights gleam, show the curve

of guard rails. Hazards blink. A door opens

to the cold. I see the face of a woman turning

toward us, but we don’t stop—

Rain becomes skater’s ice, most slippery when

closest to freezing, easy to glide across.

The car fishtails right—

           we’re suspended in each second, one giving way

                       till the next spin is a slow, smooth arc and we face

the headlights of the car that was behind us—

I grip the vinyl seam of my seat—

A film of molecules

separates us from the pavement.

~

For a long time after, when I drove and saw a certain kind of tree,

a tall, singular tree, by the side of the road, I’d think hard, Don’t—

though my hands on the wheel wanted it, the way

a Ouija board always spells out the name of someone

you know, same as that.