We’re in the backseat. Smoke plumes burst from our nostrils and sockets. No cigarettes; only the boredom of immortality. That old sun pinks the drumlin, smolders us. Vintage leather gloves hit the floor. Our hands are flames. We singe. I bite my own lip. Our coffins are safe at home.

JR Walsh is the Online Editor at The Citron Review. He teaches creative writing at SUNY Oswego. Find his writing on itsjrwalsh.com.