Driving home from another day of indoor lead,

I notice some leftover chalk from my nails

land on the leather of my steering wheel cover. I thought

I’d washed it all off, but the water-

This is the first time it hasn’t rained on my way home from 

climbing all week. I guess after I’m done passing

the wheel cover’s thread through each of my nails

to get out the rest of the chalk, I should

roll down the window. 

 

At the stoplight, I take turns stretching out

each arm. As I pull back my fingertips,

fiery claws try to take my muscles

but I don’t let them. The pain feels good, and it’s

funny to see my veins pop out so far.

Green light.

 

My right hand takes the wheel as my left comes up above to

hold the roof of the car outside the window.

The wind that passes through the sleeve of my shirt

feels nicer than imagined. My right hand

is in charge of directing every pound of this vehicle,

but that doesn’t stop it from seceding into its

natural state. It finds that shallow opening between

3 and 5 on the wheel and meticulously stacks my right thumb,

the fatter of the two, creating a beautiful hand jam.

Meanwhile,

 

my left hand latches on to the thinly raised edge

that runs the length of the car roof on each side. It’s only

something like two-eighths of an inch,

and yet I feel as if I’m being lifted out of my seat.

Maybe there’s pressure on the wheel. There must be.

But no, that’s pressure on the wheel.

And suddenly,

I’m floating.