Like instinct, the coed reaches
for the backdoor handle of his black sedan,
opens the door, slides onto the leather seat.
Door closed, she fastens her seat belt.
No need to speak.
As always, she’s already texted her dorm address
into “where to?”
In the rearview, the driver’s eyes are black as drilled holes.
Her dorm is south. He’s heading north.
The automatic door lock clicks shut.
It’s spring, but her mother can no longer smell the honeysuckle’s
heady perfume, or catch a drifting mimosa blossom
to blow it from her palm back into the air,
or watch a bee disappear down
a foxglove’s spotted throat.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 1.
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