The Vindicator

“You’ll have to go to Salem and sprain your ankle,”
my mother wrote on the clipping from the Vindicator
she mailed, reporting my high school crush was now a doctor
in the ER there. I used to weep over the steering wheel

of my first car for him, on roads through valleys fanned
by glaciers, their tilled unknowability I could never move
or melt or comprehend. . . .