moon that night, only stars. And no one else
but me to take her home, some twenty miles
in the next county. I had seen her glassy smile
across the room, the cling of her raw silk dress.
We shared a can of beer. She smoked. “A louse,”
she said about the guy who ditched her. While
I drove into the dark, she let the wind restyle
her hair. I hoped we’d never reach her house.
Out on the road between the towns, suddenly
she leaned over – I thought she meant to kiss –
and flicked the headlights off. I could see
nothing at first, steered straight to miss
a line of poles, then pulled off near a tree,
beneath the stars. And waited while she pissed.
2006 by Jared Carter
About the Author
a Midwesterner from Indiana. His poems and stories appear
online at Archipelago, Centrifugal Eye, The New Formalist,
Poetry X, and Valparaiso Poetry Review. His fourth book
of poems, Cross
this Bridge at a Walk, was published in 2006
Publications in Kentucky.