by Julia Feinberg

the rain scared cars off the streets

and left a few to drive against the current

of recycled heat pumped downtown and away

it’s like the sky’s water broke and we all came out stillborn

or we finally made the heavens fear us enough to break and sweat

or it’s like you said and this is just pillowcases being wrung out

and our excuse for being dry-mouthed before and after

I wish I could take your advice and drive with the windows down when there is nothing to rear-end

but windshield wipers can’t stop me from seeing you strapped by a seatbelt

unconvinced that the moving parts of the waking-world can pause

pruning instead of fighting for airspace through the moon roof

because you started holding your breath the first time

you thought the sky looked overcast and accepted

that we could hardly carry the weights of our otherworlds

so of all things you salvaged your silence and hoped

cloud-lips would part and say something love-like for the both of us