by Laura Bandy

There are entire days when I forget 
about the night, when in my blue Isuzu 

I started down the drive to leave the party— 
barely rolling, being careful on the gravel, 

car windows open inviting in the heat 
and grit of Midwest breeze in summer, 

corn dust rising from the fields so that I choked 
but found it sweet— fragrant prairie phlox 

and milkweed twined with light late evening rain. 
On the lawn, girls like blooms in bright orange 

and blue, the colors of the school, still dancing 
through the spate to Beck’s “Loser,” neon glow-sticks 

spinning geometric traces in the air, while I eased 
backwards, music and swaying lady flowers slowly 

receding from view. I didn’t want to leave, wanted 
to remain in the bouquet sipping keg beer and unfurling 

petals everywhere, but I was still good then and 
a girl who is good knows when to leave my mother 

taught me, or maybe it was the world who whispered be 
nice again and again; be nice, so that when I paused 

at the end of the driveway to look both ways and a boy 
jumped lightly onto my running board, his ball cap backwards, 

fraternity letters stitched large across his chest, I wanted to help. 
He asked for a ride then pushed through my half open window 

to say either I’m not going to hurt you or I’m going to hurt you, 
I could not tell which. I felt the frost then that comes at summer’s 

end, the dusting of ice we wake to that bends the grass. Still, I laughed 
and said sorry as he slid away. The next season had started— fall, with her 

numbing cold and mess. Soon leaves would blaze artery red, console the loss.