Alison Auch

Driving Back

In the back seat,
windows down,
air rushing,
hair beating moth wings.

Cornfields punctuate,
rows of leaves are signals,
guardians that
slip away.

The worn road stretches,
car thudding over
cracked blacktop
mixes stomach into grind.
Smoke snakes your silence.

No rhapsodies on weeds,
stems to sky,
no eulogies for road-kill.
Follow the lines, ignore
the safety of plants.

At the wheel,
keep your hands,
excuse your attention.
A boy, even now,
in Bexley.

Into the back seat
you funnel emptiness,
leave nothing to cinch.
For now, stooped houses,
cracked siding,
gears tick.

The spite of some
silences. 

Sky crackles, so storm deep,
windows roll up—
the soft road pocked
by bruising downpour.

A car shapes
my body,
my face
does not reflect. You

drive. Steer into
past spaces, reverse,
the future folds in.
Swerve, now
oblique.

Alison Auch (she/her) is an editor for a small, independent book publisher and a lover of poetry. An avid reader, she is (re)learning how to cook and loves writing poetry and spending time outdoors. She lives in Colorado with her daughter, dog, and three cats.