You’re sitting on the sofa. Your husband
is upstairs, your child sleeping. There are dishes
in the sink with your name on them. A dark sedan
pulls up to the curb of your mind. You know
you should turn and run the other way.
But you don’t. You stand there.
The blackened rear window rolls down.
It’s a boy you knew in high school, holding a rose.
The door opens. You climb in.
Your husband upstairs doesn’t hear the car pull away.
In the dark sedan, there’s a replica of the boy’s room:
          balled-up gym socks on the floor.
You climb onto the sheet-less mattress.
His mouth roves over you like a searchlight.
Through the blackened windows, you see
           your husband come down the stairs.
He’s holding a dirty plate with your name on it.
You bend your knees and pull your legs back.
A movie of this moment is being projected
           onto the vinyl ceiling.
Your chest fills with runaway breath.
The sedan accelerates around a corner.
Your husband calls you into the kitchen.
His words like a leash around your neck.
You straighten up, walk over,
The tremor in your shoulder is the echo
          of the boy galloping inside you.