Leaving the parking lot of the gym,

it occurs to me I can yell, Nice signal, asshole

in my head. I do not need to say it aloud,

being I am a tree falling in the forest, trapped

inside my air-conditioned automobile, and no

one can hear me, not this man, nor any man,

nor woman, no one in the world knows

what I am saying in my automobile, and so

I do not need to pronounce it, can keep it

in my head, like a coin or a secret. I remember

when I first met my husband, and I was going

on and on about my lousy childhood (ohhh

poooouur me), and he stopped me, and said,

you don’t need to tell me everything, and ahhh,

I was so relieved, wasn’t I, wasn’t I relieved?

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I don't mention my daughter's hickey

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Something about the ocean. I swing

by the pharmacy for an unnamable item,

stock up on plenty of names—Mucinex,

Cheerios, CoverGirl—anything to distract

the embarrassed young man behind

the counter. It hasn’t been that long

since I wanted to be devoured. And how.

And when will someone else notice. So blue.

At Starbucks, which I visit as regularly

as the devout pray, they call me her.

Eva, they say, and I thank them. A huge

vessel. The wild thirst. Soon enough, she’ll

drive herself. If I listen with my body,

I can hear the waves from the highway.