Frances Klein

EN ROUTE TO THE FOLLOW-UP MAMMOGRAM

There’s a whole spring day hidden
in the vocal run Whitney Houston does
as she’s leaning into the chorus of “How Will I Know.”

The car window is down on the first truly warm day
of the season, Whitney’s plaintive O’s spilling
over each other to fly toward that no-cloud blue
that arcs above the ocean, behind the mountains.

There’s warmth and movement in that voice, sweeter
than the iced coffee that is weeping sugary drops
on the test results. The puddle it melts in the cupholder
leaves a sticky remnant I’ll remember the day by
when winter shivers back into prominence all too soon.

But forget about that, I won’t think about endings yet,
not when the yellow flags of skunk cabbage are waving
from the roadside, and fingers of air streaming over the car
tease at my hair, and Ms. Houston is saying her prayers.

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