In the glare
of the headlights
your pale hand
hovers
over the black engine.
It is dead
and I am here to help you.
Snow falls in icy sheets
as you connect the cables,
the steely teeth.
During the dry season,
the plumeria tree
is bare,
leafless,
but from the gnarled
tips
of its fleshy
branches
explode
creamy white flowers,
still, their fragrance
decanted
to a beach one night
where we are
making love.
How long had we been
married then?
When we rose
on that cloud of scent
raw and giddy,
my sandals were
gone --
lapped up
and away
like two bright
hopes
until you splashed in
and scooped them
in your love-stained
hands.
The engine
bears down now
giving itself over,
over
over
to the other
until it catches.
I roll down the window
and yell, Are we OK?
my breath a vapor
flower, and you
streaked in sleet,
the jaws
hanging loose in your hand,
nod. Just in case,
you call out,
grounded
by our years,
follow me.