by Katrina Vandenberg
This morning in the untouched lots
of Target, St. Agnes, and Lake
Phalen, girls all over the city
in the first snowfall
of their sixteenth year are being asked
by brothers, fathers—my cousin
Warren—to drive too fast then lock
their brakes, to teach them how to right
themselves. The whine of the wheels, the jerk
when they catch—from Sears to Como Park
to Harding High, the smoke
that bellows from their lungs,
the silver sets of jagged
keys, the spray of snow,
the driver's seat, the encouraging Go
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