By Leylanaz Shajii
The Peykan careens
lurches my stomach from one side to the other, pouring
my heart out. My guts in zigzag in between the gray cars.
In the rear mirror frame, the driver’s eyes:
unflinching black irises at the knot my scarf’s making.
Dirt underneath his fingernails
the gear snug in his hand. Full stop. Traffic jam.
Greasy hand pulls the window down. A breath
of smoke to beat the heat
Haydeh’s tune to expand our chests, to forget
chaos, cars, and the fading lanes. The eyes on the road
are eying each other and black irises still
at my neck.
Dusty shoes press on the gas again
he must be wearing forty-two.