He flipped me the bird before
driving away
En route
To a rest stop
where I once gave another man
head
And it’s strange to see that car leave
with an empty backseat
where I reclined
On dirty afternoons
Shorefront
And the ocean
would sticky the navigation around handbrakes
causing a prison tug of seatbelts
Which I cut through
with a pocketknife one night
Because I hated his brother
And knew braking hard enough
Would bloody his back-seated nose
And of all the history and bitterness
There was still sweetness
in the fact
that I kissed his sister once
When she gave me money from his wallet
then performed amative touches
That he’ll never know
Just like this night now
Gestational
And as the red lights press brakes furiously
in the distance from
my decision
I think of baby’s on
backseats
And seatbelts all
shredded
And know he’s not the father to any of this.
Because I took his last 5 quid
After all
By Amy-Jean Muller