Glovebox Psalms
The freeway’s a black river.
I’m swimming in your Chevrolet’s backseat,
radio static preaching forgiveness
like a sermon only dogs could hear.
You left your voice in my voicemail—
July’s a bruise that won’t fade—
and I keep replaying it,
trying to baptize the anger
into something bluer.
Mercy’s the A/C humming it’s okay, it’s okay
while sweat maps constellations
down your spine.
Forgiveness is the aux cord
we both refuse to unplug,
letting Stevie Wonder croon “Maybe Your Baby”
until the gas light glows.
We’re parallel parking
in the lot of a 24/7 CVS,
buying Starbursts and sunscreen
at 2 a.m. because we’re trying
to remember how to be sweet
and how to stop burning.
The moon’s a cracked phone screen.
You say “I’m sorry” like it’s a lyric
from a song we loved at 17.
I say “I know” like I’m reading
your obituary backwards.
The receipts in the glove compartment
outline all the things we couldn’t save:
12.99 for roses, 12.99 for lighter fluid.
We don’t talk about the fire.
We just drive,
letting the highway pixilate us
in its neon psalm.
The Chevrolet’s a time machine
stuck between what was and what if,
forgiveness is the toll booth
we keep speeding past.
675 Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, Kentfield CA 94904 Phone: 415-464-3898 | Email: admissions@marincatholic.org
