He seized on the interchange
as late sunlight glared off game-day traffic
and I just stopped, mid-lane,
and punched the hazards
as he bucked against the car seat.
But I wouldn't say I watched, couldn't say
I stared, won't say now I saw
when his mouth went slack
and his eyes rolled white
as if I could have recorded
those sights. And today his fever
lingers on his face the way
Vermeer's light loved milkmaids.
His brown eyes brimming like a heifer’s;
His beauty like a doomed
consumptive. He clings like August
clutches the Valley, and I sit
and let my own sweat rise.
How could I do otherwise?
In two days he’ll push away my arms,
so I hold this moment in my gaze
the way I spot heat mirages
wavering off the asphalt.
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