Nina Buckless and I are driving down Main Street in her truck.
It’s got 200,000 miles on it and takes a calamity to turn over.
It is the holiday season, so the trees are dressed with pinpricks of yellow light.
They surprise us.
They glitter and shatter over us in a washpoint of star shower.
In that achingly sweet voice of hers
she turns to me and says,
I wanna hotwire a red ‘57 Chevy, but just to take it around the block
and return it where it was …
That’s oddly specific,
tired of her delusions.
With all this dialogue and motive
you are now writing a story.
You’re scaring me.
It’s not like you to caution me.
Nina says, Oh.
Nina says, I am not Nina or haven’t you noticed?
Now I am afraid.
I am afraid of how her voice has turned metallic.
I am afraid of how her eyes seem painted on.
I am afraid of how poems are like incantations
and of how my mother used to say,
Don’t whistle in the dark; you will surely call the devil,
and what am I doing now but whistling.about the author