You know the tab on your rearview mirror
– the one that changes the angle
at which you see the world behind you?
My mom would use it
to make a point.
There was the time I pulled a chair out
from under my classmate, who bruised her tailbone.
After the teacher tells my mom what happened,
Jill doesn’t say a word to me
until we’re halfway home.
But I don’t remember what she says
because the only thing
standing out in my mind
is the snap
of the tab
on the rearview.
When Jill cracks it forward,
the mirror is like the thunderous clap
belonging to my former self, when I didn’t know
how to make decisions – when I clapped
for cartoons and clapped for balloons.
With her forefinger, Jill flicks my memories away
and says: I don’t want to look at you.
So I start to cry for no reason
other than to fill the car with something.