My First Car

By Steve Nash

It tasted sour, warm blood crept from my nose,
and as I lolled it around my tongue it throbbed
outwards like gelatine, until my mouth was clogged;
too full to cry out toward my house should the blood
unburden itself of my body for good.
I’d lifted the wheeled, plastic gift
in those too-thin arms down the porch stairs.
Cheeks hot with guilt, feet naked as newborns
to muffle each siren scream of the steps.
Chest tight from the cobwebs frost’s spiders
always weaved in my lungs, what valuable
breath they let leak unfurled into dancing silverfish.
Nothing prepared for the breathless crush
once I’d pushed off from the crest.
Earth rushed past until my first car
betrayed our tryst.
My lips returned the concrete’s kiss,
I haven’t driven since.

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