New Year's Day
by Sarah DeCorla-Souza

It must be two or three
in the morning, as we ride, the five
of us, cramped in a two-door
Honda the color of rust

and as old as we are. Clawed
branches splinter the full moon
as we hum down boulevards
flanked by pale dead windows.

In the backseat you lay your head
on my shoulder and I think
of the night before, my hand
curled in your black hair,

your ear to my stomach, listening
to our unborn child - to movement
that sounds just like water.
Your brother's head slumps

against the cold pane. Too much
to drink. Half-asleep, he promises
he will never take a job
that makes him wear a tie.

His girlfriend asks no one in particular
what will be different when the baby comes.
We can still meet at the coffee shop
on Tuesdays, I say, braiding the fringe

of my five dollar scarf. You say
there have been layoffs at your company.
That your father knows about money.
Your best friend is leaving in a week

to volunteer in a country where the dust
lifts like sheets on a clothesline.
The people are so poor there,
they build houses out of cardboard.

You squeeze my hand
as we turn the corner. Ahead,
the telephone wire cuts the moon
into two perfect half-circles.