You sit across
the bench seat
of the Buick
like the moon,
making a perfect
dive board cannonball
with your arms
hugging your knees
to your chest.
Your window is stuck
and rattling
from the relative wind,
which hums a sound
like a vowel borrowed
from your name.
We are sticking
to our clothes and cold,
soaked in chlorine,
lightheaded and quiet.
I reach across
you and hit the door,
wrestle the handle
until it catches.
You finish rolling it up.
The silence makes me shudder.
The road is dark,
but light still reflects
off pools of water
on the bench seat between us.
You slide across to me.
Cold, like the moon,
except closer, more luminous.
