IN TRANSIT

I am my red Subaru crosstrek. I would rather die than go the speed limit. I roll down my windows on highways. I am the howling wind. I am not a bird. I cannot feel the wind in my feathers. I am four wheels and metal and gray asphalt. I watch my windshield fog up from the inside on a moonlit night. I miss the sun. I wear the sun on a chain around my neck. I abandon my sunglasses in my backseat; abandon two booster seats there as well. I do not see the negative space where two small bodies should sit. I look forward. I am the Earth. I watch the leashed moon orbit me. I go 90 just to feel the wind in my hair. I scream with the force of one thousand broken lenses. I feel the thrumming of the engine under my feet. I am a car on the highway going faster and faster and faster and–