Imogen Mchugh

The season you learned to drive. Sweat trailing down your back, serpentine as your smile When you offered me a ride down the coast road. The sun had bleached your hair nearly white Like bone, that summer, and we burned Without the need for gasoline or angry words. I don’t like the way the road runs so close to the edge, And you don’t like my hesitation, so I go back to the feeling of damp linen, the smell of your heat Like a brother in the way I haunt you, like a summer In the way I let you go.