We rent – or steal – a car and pile into the backseat,
four bodies squished into a space built for three.
Sweaty knees press together as we turn
away from everything we've ever known.
We take corners too quickly, elbows and guts collide
as discomfort fades to laughter and fear
is swallowed down (for now). We steal glances out
the rear window, where faraway smoke is
curling from what was once our home.
The classrooms are crumbling and
monkey bars bend under hot pressure.
In our little getaway vehicle, the temperature rises.
Cheeks flush, gazes are caught and held.
We are the first to leave, the first who have to.
Parents told us we were overreacting,
but our history textbooks are full of this kind of fear,
this boiling change. We've seen it before,
heard this poison spat forth by powerful people,
analysed the destruction for points on exams.
At least when the red rain comes, Anna says,
we'll be together. She forces a smile
from the passenger seat and as
we barrel down the highway
in our borrowed-stolen car,
a forever-silence falls
and we are gone
