Open hand. Frail heart. He tore across the lawn, leaving deep ruts. I don’t remember if he clipped the side of the house. The flowers. Make believe that we were there.
That we saw. Smelled. A deepening fragility connected to the broom. Straw, I can’t. Well, you were right.
Leaving. Always that long, drawn-out, odious, well-worn. It was so tired. I was.
And then he revved his engine. The tires squealed. You squealed. I remember sinking in the mud of my desire for you. Unable.
To move. We did have something before that. Blue ghosts hovering in a mist of humidity. How did he?
I swear. The windows were all open. The smell of burnt rubber, lilacs, departure.
I haven’t fed the fish in days, but let it nibble on my fingertips. And I think about the grass. The rut. Your squeal, damp thighs. Something.
For him or? I held out my hand. And closed it around the handle. A sweeping motion.
Must be something. Musk. Machismo. Mechanics.
song: “Juke Box Drive” by Mitch Woods
Mamie dear,
I don’t know how you did it, but I think you commented on a post that was deleted the same day it was posted. That was several days ago now. You must be magic or something.
Fondly,
sh