Tonight Mom drives on black glass

one story below infinity.

Dad sits quietly

and I fold over in my sister’s lap,

her hand resting on my ribs

like a warm, pulsing shield.

We are swarmed by rushing rivers

of blurried tail lights

and softened headlights,

yet the world holds its breath.

Each car that passes

carries a new beginning

or an unhealed goodbye

singing from raw throats,

and yet the world holds its breath.

I make out the reflections

of parked cars and shopping malls

on the glass of my sister’s window.

The glow of scattered street lamps

colors my pupils with flecks of gold.

I see a man pumping gas

and a woman weeping,

yet the world holds its breath.

Mom is careful to avoid the cars

that weave and stray and jolt,

the drivers who are drunk

on the loneliness of December

and lost in the letters of home.

She stares straight at the sky,

my father at her.

I teeter on the edge of sleep,

tuned in to the symphony of my sister’s body,

and it is in the cavernous gut of the night

that I wonder

if the running quiet is meant to be filled

with hope or grief.