I left. There was another man I loved.
I buckled into his Civic and we shot through fields
in which everything suggested the shape
of something else. Ohio to Michigan,
his football broadcast strained; it fractured
with static. His team would not win half their games
that year, but then, it was still the beginning
of the season, and he could shrug off loss
as easily as he swept dry leaves from the windshield –
still say, what was one slip-up, one bad run?
He tongued strategies and traced plays in lines
on the dashboard’s dust and held my hand
as he might have held a child’s. I let him.
I kept trying to say, We will not last through winter.
Instead, I asked, How long till we’re home?
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