Her highway is a silver ribbon threaded
through a lush hair of trees. She gets lost in its curves,
its shushing becomes her nightmusic.
She's older now. She drives one-handed.
She knows these turns, seen them all before.
No longer a wet-lipped girl fidgeting
in livery cabs with Dominican drivers
who reek of Brut cologne and wink into the rearview.
She rides alone. Until sky breaks open. A greening light.
An empty highway she rides between dusk and dawn,
distance and time, watching the sun anoint treetops,
watching eyes of dull apartments catch aflame.
She drives, a silent witness with no name.
Every time, it's like being born again.
Selected from Matador Magazine, published in Madrid
Edited by Mireia Sentis