You always wanted to die in a car crash. Lungs ruptured full of oil and exhaust. Strangled together by seatbelts, pythons winding between our hips and around our necks. My California license plate embedded deep in the back of your skull looks beautiful. The edge of an aluminum palm tree peeks out from under the rupture in your cerebellum. Some kind of white viscous fluid oozes across the number "4"
And for a moment my gaze falls jagged across your auburn hair and into your eyes and I remember days when we used to drive down desert roads made of concrete. The wind blurring the world into a sweet shudder. The way you used to laugh when I took my shoes off while somehow still managing to steer the car across the dusty desert road. The way the world fell into a deep grey blur. And when at 120, I suddenly hit a lamb in the middle of the road, blood sputtering from its throat where my chrome grill kissed it atop bright white yellow lines right before we flipped and turned and slid into the cool blue night...
photo by Ansel Adams 1960
