and I only ever felt

safe in the passenger’s seat

except for one occasion

but the car wasn’t moving

then, nor was I

I like being driven

around, in cars that have seen

the coast of England, Austrian

places, middles of nowhere

in cars that carried

paintings & second-hand books

in every nook, small and old

cars, dust- & cinnamon-scented

I like leaning back

while someone steers

and talks to me as if

we weren’t vulnerable

I like the intimacy of cars

I like giving my life into

someone’s hands

I like loud music and speed

in cars, I like sitting next

to a woman who knows

something about arrivals

and being late

a woman who

swears, a woman who

relaxes, a woman who

loves me or who, at

least, wants to make sure

I get home

this could be an ode

to the women who drove

me places: to train stations,

bus stops and airports, chatting

and calming and cussing, hands

holding the wheel in a

knowing grip

in traffic, you can get to

know someone sideways,

and love them without

being noticed; passenger’s

seats are for danger & adoration

I imagine Vyvyan as a

responsible driver, but eyeing

the opportunities for an accident,

feet twitching, ambulance,

emergency & fractures on his mind

should he give his flatmates

a lift, they might briefly

forget about mortality—with Vyv

there is pain but there’s no

blood, only stars, four cold

silver stars on his forehead