Janna King

OUR IDENTITY

Rain pours against the windshield

as I sit, legs tucked under, cheek

against hand against cold window,

listening to the sound of the wipers.

You hum along with the radio.

Yellow and red lights travel in black;

we flow through constellations,

your hand briefly resting

on my knee.

Morning brings new complications.

Why are you…? What do you…? How are you…?

Declaratives disguised

as interrogatives. The true question

remains hidden.

It’s as simple as

you not liking my favorite music.

As complicated as

devotion.

Keep me, keep me.

Who are you? (Who am I?)