She asked if I could sing Let It Go– 
back of the bus, leather seats gleaming

like a row of trophies. Instead of answering, I let 
her question stitch itself to the hum  

of the wheels, exhausted against February’s asphalt. 
Between us, the aisle pulsed with light– 

our faces flickering like dropped coins shimmying  
through dark water. The stench of bathroom trailed  

into my throat like sour perfume. She cupped the song 
like a secret between us, two girls glistening 

with pride: three weeks sober from ice-pink 
cans, berry fizz, the black sheep of the debate team.

As we snaked through Philadelphia, winding 
the shadowed streets like the shadows of thrifted bangles,  

she counted days: tiny lambs clearing her picket fence, white  
as the rumored patch of snow her neighbors found 

each time they buried cheap handles of vodka 
in her backyard. I tucked that rumor into the pocket  

of my Anne Klein blazer with the rest, stretching  
tight across my shoulders. For the rest  

of the trip, we sat in silence. She looked at me  
like I might know she hid the bottles herself.