Stab Wounds and Art Books

The TV says "investigators noticed the blood in the streetlight glare"

and in my young mind,

I'm not sure if it means the streetlights on screen,

or the lights outside the car window.

Her cigarette smoke is already curling into headlights,

a hum in the backseat

where my head leans on her shoulder,

not sleeping, but making room for a moment

where I might feel loved by my mother.

-

Sometimes she chose the front seat instead,

and I tell myself it's

because of the heater,

because of sore hips,

because-

but the road stretches out like the artbook I can't stop drawing in,

and even if I stop,

the tires on the pavement keep making that sound.

-

Morning:

Same couch, us in different corners.

Coffee steam.

Cigarette smoke.

The burnt-sugar smell of wood under the heated tip of her tool.

The narrator counting stab wounds,

while you etch flowers into maple,

a stem turning into a weapon before she notices.

-

The cigarette ash drops-

-no, that's snow.

No, it's the yellow glow between the streetlights.

We keep switching channels,

but every station has the same voiceover:

"She was last seen..."

"She was driving home when..."

"Her body was found..."

-

I keep drawing lines that look like her,

but every version turns its head away.

The smoke thickens,

the headlights blink out.

We are still on the couch,

still on the road home.

We are still.

But she's already sitting in the front seat.