Driving the Baby to Sleep
Breaks in winter clouds like grease films in dishwater. Car seat back-facing baby in its gentle mouth, lion-tamer, her tiny head demonstrating how domestic Little Honda Fit, your large headlights like mouse eyes; little coffee here, little there, my life tiny, my life tiny underneath these dry strata. Open to my hands, open to my eyes fault of living. Huddled copper coins in a secret dish; scarlet and salmon fabric roses tufting the snow-covered graves as I glide by with my baby in this elevator of glass.