Riding Home

Windows are shut on the silent frontier,
Car drifting down the placid path
Breathing hushed by the whisper of crinkling bags
Air carries a warm odor that fills the lungs like meat to the stomach
Incense
Not like cigarette smoke, nitrogen to the lungs,
Or a rash kiss into the mouth, momentous ecstasy
But rather like lips tickling the face,
Smooth and easy,
Warm and calm.

Shush, he's taking you home.

Rachel Carmody