Restraint

The engine is off but the heat is still humming

in the vents, a dying breath of recycled air.

I can see the kitchen window from here,

the yellow light, the shape of a shoulder moving

behind the blinds.

I’m not ready for the questions about my day.

I press the red button and the metal tongue

leaps from the buckle, a heavy, clinical thud

against the plastic of the door frame.

I pull my collar aside in the rearview mirror.

A long, angry welt runs across my neck,

a friction burn from the webbing of the belt

where it held me back when the light turned red.

It looks like a hand has been holding me down.