by Katrina Ray-Saulis
Pine needles and dried leaves under fingernails, the field
expansive, fingers pinned between wipers and windshield.
At prom on Saturday we will gyrate to the rhythm
on his mom's car stereo as he puts the gear in position.
You smile, your fears quelled by personal fable
We are not mortal, our lives are ahead, untouchable.
Your hair whips around your face as your shoes
fly off into the darkness under the full moon.
The moon is full of promise and desire overheadas we spin backwards and dizzy into what lies ahead.