Window cracked just enough to let the smoke
from his joint filter towards January’s guardrails,
the road slowly unfolds in front of us, a cracked
side mirror breaking my face in sharp angles—. He drives
like he lives: loose and fast, bicep sinew and beard
I love to kiss deeply, at the point where his jaw ends.
This is the end before the beginning, the slow rending
that came because I let him. The cold window gives
 
the purest image of winter, and I remember mornings
without sickness, my belly still a blank page
I thought I needed to fill. In time, I’ll learn
the harder ending of desire, the swollen blues surging
from iced-over banks, the biggest wrong-
breaking, to cackle or cry when I can’t sing.

—Chelsea Woodard

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