Objects in Mirror
Aya Burton

Something quiet now
             parked car in the cul-de-sac
metal glinting silver in the cold

snow, stark as the waning moon
             plunging through
midamerican sky

our chilled breath fogs
             the windows, forms
slow drips of condensation

I trace the pattern on the seats
             pull my sweater's loose seams
try to wake my sleeping tongue

see myself from
             far away
figurine encased in glass

wings frozen, feet numb
             buried by the snow globe's
localized storm
    
that car
             dead quiet
time waxes, year passes

we don't look
             at our faces, made pale
by the windshield

don't dare to stir
             the air pooled between us
setting things into solid place

that hand, my hand
             leaden on the handle
his key dead in ignition

snowfall
             suspended
snow falling still

so many seconds
             ​the years
in a second

car parked
             outside
dash light glowing

I notice I am breathing
             self-conscious
of the sound

he shifts the gear
             swings open the door
and it's over, that

             ​terrible, ageless waiting.