On the Exit Ramp

"Every time we round a curve," he'd said,
"I see you applying the brakes.
Hit the gas. Speed
into the turn."

And so she let up
on the brakes of ten years,
her driving instructor,
her mother, (this
is what we do for love),
the red flags in her feet.
She sped into the turn.

And it was indeed flight, the resolution
of girl and road, and she thought,
when they find my keys,
hot in the ashes of the crash,
Maybe, he will say, maybe,
Maybe I could have been wrong.

photograph by Eric Larson

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