Kevin Oberlin

JUST BETWEEN THE TWO OF US

You should see what I see
when against the back seat
she confesses, flat in the mirror,
gestures a thin hand to rearrange
her bangs catching the wind
as it slips through the window.
Like a TV screen, the pool-blue sky,
above the pink starlet’s bikini,
hand to her forehead half-blocking
the sun, red hair caught up
with the mess of light pressed
between the panes of glass,
everything reversed like the image
you get before your mind
intervenes, patches together
what the other eye sees
upside down and absolutely flat,
no wind in the single frame, no motion
in the wink, only its color
and the smooth of her
as two-dimensional as a word.
Distance is a myth, she’ll say.
Listen, or look away.