Mark McCawley

for Angelina

Let’s turn off the ignition
lock the doors and coast this curved
highway until we stop
watch snow which splatters
sperm-like across the car windshield

The air is chilled with crisp echoes
announcing jazz and bluegrass
Our bodies twine like petrified branches
Your body heat unfurls
like a veil to my knees
I’m on fire
but your nipples are hard as pearls
between thumb and forefinger
cold as hailstones
I warm with my breath

We swell and burst and ball
all night to the buzz
of the Trans-Canada
By morning the battery is dead
and we’re long gone
trudging along a shoulder
snow stinging eyes as we smile

hitching for a ride
to the nearest motel