sliding,
stroking.
It never ends,
this desire.
Not for me.
But Aura dreams of other hands.
In he
r sleep,
she whispers his name.
I wonder how much is hope
and how much is memory.
I don’t want to know.
Because whether she sighs for the past
or sighs for the future,
she sighs for him.
“It’s sooooo hot.”
My sister, Siobhan, winds her hair
into a purple-streaked black knot,
then cranks up the car’s air-conditioning.
I can’t feel the breeze,
but the rattle and hum of the compressor
sound comfortingly normal
to this paranormal dude.
We’re stuck bumper to bumper on the
Chesapeake Bay Bridge,
just like old times.
In the driver’s seat,
Mickey turns the AC knob back down.
“It spits out hot air
when you put it on max.”