Labor

It dawned on me
just before actual dawn:
there was no getting out
of getting him out.
I was in. Did I want out?
Not exactly, though
I wanted something not
how it was happening.
I wanted…the option?
I wanted to stall.
For it was the speed—
the hurtling, exactly—
that horrified me.
That named me passenger
in a car with no plates
and a rogue driver known
by no one.

I got the drugs. It got light out,
I got light. The relief
felt like fresh love.
It was fresh love.
I could’ve wept.
But in time, a new problem:
the stall I’d wanted
wouldn’t stop—meaning
neither of us was driving.

--me