handfuls of air

On a journey together,

you driving over blue ice,

piercing the dark, rocketing

to a black horizon supposedly brighter,

headlights two pale ovals

on the gleaming danger.

We have seen it crack before

and always swerved around,

but this vehicle is no longer stable.

It rattles beneath us.

At any moment a bolt might snap

and send this wreckage down

into the freezing abyss.

I could jump, yes.

I eye the shaking door handle,

but hesitate. I grip

my knees instead and hold

my ragged breath

and wait for change.