issue 2: ROAD TRIP
the second row
The second row of seats in our getaway
van is not properly bolted to the floor.
Our heads hit the roof and our haul
rattles in the back, guitar cases a domino
line, downed by a sharp curve. Speeding
on the highway, we make a game
of it. Can we lift our hips in tandem
so that we are ever so briefly
airborne? I undo the belts, mine
and yours. What good are restraints,
if no one has secured what’s beneath us?
Out of the shotgun seat rises the complaint
that the creak of metal would be more
circumspect if we were fucking. We’re good
at that chase, too. But we are better
at winging it. I can’t ever return the loot
from that town myself. Instead, every night I
yield to the noise, and we peddle our own
bootlegs. I think you know exactly which bump
knocked those bolts loose. I pull my hoodie over my
eyes and press my cheek to the cold curve
of window glass. As you rest your head on my
shoulder, asleep or almost, I try to gauge
the time we have left until the rest breaks down.
is a neurodivergent queer cook, birder, and chicken herder. She lives with her wife and young daughter in Western Massachusetts.