The Shape of Our Road Trip

Our road trip was shaped
like the bottle of wine we drank
the night you slapped my face
for telling you about infinity.
It was shaped like your halo,
shaped like your Fallopian tubes,
shaped like the Chinese
characters for endlessness.

I only drove at night because
that’s when oncoming headlights
made me drunk from their luminosity.
Secret messages on the tripometer
begged me to run us off those
curvy mountain roads,
but I stayed in our lane.

A state trooper chased us
for miles, then changed course
to follow a flock of drunken birds.
The sleepy voice
of a preacher coaxed
me to crash into whatever was
more beautiful than
the curve of your back
when you make pancakes.

Our road trip was shaped like
the way you curl in motel beds.
It was shaped like the objects
that float above us when we sleep.