And So Quietly
Stephanie Maher
You smelled like cigarettes
Smoked in a VW bus crossing state lines in the Deep South.
Like cigarettes,
Smoked over conversations
About a pretty young thing you had left on a bus.
Who would tangle her hands in your hair,
And always left your fingers smelling
Like currants and black tea.
She kissed you in a field,
Flooded,
With a lamp like moon.
It pushed past tree boughs
And dug deep lines in the tall grass.
It left a mark,
Shaped like a girls hand on your back.
You remembered as the van pushed through bayous and voodoo cemeteries,
The night you pressed your hands against her hips.
She pressed so gently against your fingers,
And so quietly kissed your lips.
