potholes 

we drove in the city of cavities.
you with your dashboard face & me with
my dreams of husband-life. i can't remember
if it was raining or if it was just a creamy fog
or if i just wanted it to be raining. 
in total, i think we only kissed eighteen times. 
how a body is a rosary. measuring a distance
back to salvation. o holy crater. 
snow plow. motorcycle. angel shovel. 
red lights in the dark. the eyes of gargoyles.
you talked about graffiti you'd done
on the hips of dead buildings. i was filling
every single pothole in. each a little shadow box.
my baby shoes & my girl pictures & 
my boy pictures & pictures i took with 
other lovers. i was comforted too that the city
was as pockmarked as us. this night,
like stepping through an archway 
in a forest of unlived lives. we went to aldi.
ate untoasted bagels in the car. 
tried to laugh about a man mistaking us
for girls. the pothole is a site of truth-telling.
they all spoke to me, saying, "you are not
going to build a life with him like you imagine."
i kept filling them. kept saying,
"how do you know?" a dead pigeon. a dead rat. 
no no no. "you know it too," they all said. 
hitting one pothole so hard my car lit up,
every single light on the dashboard. 
you were frightened & so was i. i said,
"we will be okay." praying to my 1996 volvo
that she would restart. that she would
just take us home. she did. 
honking all around us. 
then, pulling up in front of your apartment. 
"i'll text you," i said. you did not reply.
was this the last time i saw you? 
maybe there were others. i drove home though
avoiding as many potholes as i could.
i wept there were so many. they spread
to my face & to my hands. rain water collected.
children came to fill me with flowers.
in bed, i promised myself to try & stop
making us something we were not. 
in the morning all my car tires were flat.
you hadn't texted me. the moon stayed out all day.