(About a 1 minute read)
Do you remember, Suzanne,
The night we drove down to the hot springs
Through the falling snow,
The snow that swirled and blazed
Like sparks from a wildfire
In the headlights of your car?
I thought the beauty of that night
Would be our last
Because you started playing chicken
With the oncoming trucks —
Darting into their lane,
Hurling your car at them
As if each truck was Jeff.
You asked over and over,
Your voice at first pleading
Then demanding to know,
Why he’d again been cruel,
Why he’d again been hateful,
Why he’d again punched
“The woman he loved”.
But you never paused for an answer,
You never really wanted it said;
Your questions were desperate to drown it,
Block the answer, cut it off.
It was past ten when we made it to the springs.
You didn’t bother to cry that night or any other,
But you were weary-eyed at nineteen…
…with still satin skin.
And as you stripped down bare for the pool,
I thought you looked like a waif
Someone had left out
Naked in the falling snow.