IN THE TRUCK’S BACK DRAFT

JOHN RYBICKI

There’s the purr of the road we love, your silk and my silk spilling in a trail behind us. You say were are books not kites and I wine to a rich hue of blue. You laugh and roll the windows down so our pages flutter like all manner of white birds inside our cruiser cab. Some of them ripping out the windows with our syllables on them, caught for a while in the truck’s back draft and dragged along with us until they lose their flutter power and slide off into the ditch. You let go of the wheel because I hold on too much and want to go back crawling in the ditch with you lining the high beams up so I can gather the lost pages. I want to say we crash into the corn and shred through it like our own children, but what happens is you roll the windows up and the bird spasms turn back into pages and flutter down the floor to rest. I unclip the safety belt and place my mouth to where the heat is breaking around the neckline of your shirt. I test your ribs for breath then settle into your lap and rest there under the turning wheel, the light with its slippery fingers on our dashboard. More of the hum of the world and the hum of the wind inside your chest, a few stray pages still fluttering down on top of me.

 

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