We Are Learning To Be Silent Together Poem by Corinna McClanahan Schroeder

my fingers pinching the radio knob,
the vents' hot blast and the window cracked,
his headlight's narrow arc. He speeds because,
six months in, he knows I like it. He wants
to buy me frozen custard at the shop outside town.
Phlegmatic with winter, I want his thick,
chapped hands at ten and two. Gas petal
velocity, a throatful of gelid air, the hollow screech
the open window lets inside. The tempered glass
slicks my slack-eyed image. My mousy hair
shines. Beyond, snow falls like ash. In January,
Indiana's wasteland—the umber soil raked hard
and clean of crops, frosted in this nighttime hour.
Clapton takes an FM wave. Even into the empty
exit lane, we accelerate. He turns the wheel according
to the ramp's clover shape, but too late—the car skips
ice and doesn't slow. Our mouths open, noiseless Os.