Driving late at night. Coming home from the therapist,
or psychologist, I can never remember the difference.
The one that tries to make me talk about my feelings,
like I want to remember.

Late. 2am and we were coming back from that club,
He was a little tipsy and I was a lot tipsy and lights
and sounds streaked past us as the car sped towards
Home. Turner Boulevard.

I forget. I think I was drifting away, thinking about tests.
Sometimes I remember the way he gripped the wheel,
or how he was drumming his fingers along to the radio.
Right before the lights.

I came to in a hospital, my sister, asleep, head bent in fatigue
or prayer. The first words she said to me were, “I’m sorry.