{19 September 2016}

The man steers their red volvo with bony wrists:
they are tan, wide, delicate and strong.
The woman in the passenger seat is talking, smiling slightly.
I imagine that the woman loves his wrists:
she loves the way they make dinner, hold their
daughter, steer the car.
She imagines that when they are old, their
daughter grown, their hair thinner, their
movements smaller, their car slower,
his wrists will still be his wrists.
They will be the same ones that held her
hand for the first time and every time.
Their daughter’s son will have the same skinny
wrists. She imagines that those wrists will
always be the same. She still believes they
will be the same when, in the next
moment, the red volvo’s bumper
disappears into the bumper of the
bright green lorry, and everything changes.


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