David R. DiSarro
THERE’S NOTHING ELSE WE CAN DO
We pulled away from the doctor
one last time as a morning fog rolled
over the car. Her narrow fingers
tapped in time to the radio while
the road unraveled like her smile –
the shape of her nose narrowed,
her cheekbones like razor blades.
I held the words between my teeth,
hoping the unsaid would rise up
to meet us, but we stayed silent
until she hummed a melody,
just out of reach underneath
the faint static on the dial. A crack,
feathered across the windshield,
seemed to grow larger, another
reminder of those things we said
we’d fix when there was more time.