Flashings

The light pools on the ugly night trees.
I can call them ugly because I once lived here.
My husband holds onto the names of the stars
I keep my eye on the road, mulling my to-do list
stay awake behind the wheel
muscle memory recall the radio dials
firmly plant my love for him
among my younger selves, who are all going
a cautious 60 mph. Rule-followers.
The selves of years ago should not
be driving alongside me
in the four-lane highway, it isn’t right.
The billboard illuminates Dr. Pepper For Men
next to the photo of a baby’s fingernails.
The highway has a Church’s Chicken
on fire. The light I know a name for
is fire. He ushers me toward the stars
again, tracing a belt through the air
a skirt, a crude flame. I take him to a place
I’m supposed to know and think this is bare.
I am bare. The cars of myself are rolling
down their windows, trying to yell against
the wind… my husband, the stars, the trees
the fire I once set as I stuffed my body
in the trumpet vines, wanting to gut
the orange bulbs weighing down the fence.
Now the me in the HOV lane is waving
both hands off the wheel to get my attention.
Like a little sister…