It’s white-out. On the road with windshield wipers that can’t work fast enough. Rain rain rain

I think, like that’ll make it easier to see. Water washes over the freeway. Its own kind of river.

Cars are little boats that spin uselessly, throwing water up in arcs like that old refrain, dip dip and

swing. I roll downstream in the right lane, hazards on. White windshield. I should pull over.

But I have waited two months for this doctor’s appointment. I pull onto the bridge and the wind is

coming at me and I think of that Ada Limón poem and wonder where my girl-horse heart is.

It beats, somewhere. I take my hazards off and hope my hands know where the road is before

my eyes do. To keep calm, I write a poem in my head. Rain is a sluicefield / lover-like and holy bowl

/ spinning out a river. It’s not very good. I need to get to this doctor’s appointment or I’ll have to

wait two more months. The wind throws rain against my windshield like raw dough, white

and flat on a counter. I add that: raw and white / from hand to ground. Water pools in the middle

of the bridge, going from river to lake. I slow to thirty miles an hour. Twenty. The car in front

begins to slide into the oncoming lane. Headlights blink wetly, a warning. Splashing, crash of

metal on metal, water grabbing movement like it has a hand. Two seconds before the car flips onto

mine, I think, this’ll make a good poem.