I reached up to tilt the glass away

I reached up to tilt the glass away

from the sun setting hard in the pines.

The mirror is cracked in a silver spray

of thin and intersecting lines.

It splits the world that I’ve left behind.

One road goes north, the other falls low.

It’s the kind of math I don't want to find

when I’m deciding which way to go.

In the back seat, caught in the dusty light,

is a plastic car seat, empty and still.

It’s been there for months, out of my sight,

climbing the grade of this long, steep hill.

The reflection is a ghost I didn't invite,

a small reminder of the things that don't last.

I’m driving forward into the night

with one eye fixed on a broken past.