You know the tab on your rearview mirror,
the one that changes the angle
at which you see the world? Well,
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 of myself
as an infant, when I didn’t know
how to make decisions, when I clapped
for cartoons, and clapped for balloons.
With her forefinger, Jill claps 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.