In the Pastel Hour

In the pastel hour between stars and sun, 

she backs her neon green Beetle out of the drive 

and heads for the highway, another busted up 

love affair in her rear-view mirror, its promises

fading, falling into that bushel basket of memories, 

settling beside an old story in another car, 

this time a shiny white Cadillac convertible

with a tiny girl, sobbing, 

wedged in the far corner of the backseat, 

her big, wonderful, terrible Daddy 

at the wheel, tension rising from him 

like vapors on a desert road, and he says

If you don’t quit crying, I’m gonna leave you

on a street corner, and the stillness 

quick so quiet came to the car, just like 

the silence now in the green Beetle, 

where she thinks about the places that hurt, and knows 

the truth—if you leave first you can’t be left. 

Published in San Pedro River Review , Fall 2021