You disappear from the rearview
and I feel it for the first time
my loss of traction, slick like oil.
I feel the hydroplane begin
the too-smoothness of it
a queasy flirtation, hemispheres
hanging in the silence
moth-like, wet and crystalline.
The car fishtails, slides across
empty lanes of traffic,
a monster of friction
that can’t be helped or stopped
and suddenly between us
that flutter, that black ice,
that spinning radio dial,
that pump of brakes,
that perfect moment
I take my eyes off the road
to see the next morning
all empty bridges and shattered lights,
your face the last face in my mirror.
Bret Lawrence is a 23-year-old graduate of Florida State University. She’s been writing since high school with a concentration on poetry. She now works as a copywriter, editor, social media manager, and dog walker.