The Meadow 91 My Heart May Burst From My Chest Nichole Zachary You are my father’s 1964 Mustang. In that, you are rust-coated metal, old leather seats stained with spilt Cherry Coke, same intoxicating scent of exhaust fumes. Once, I yelped loud, leg scolded on the red-hot pipe and you smoothed aloe gel over the angry mark left behind. Thursdays were Trash Days with smoke lifted from full, brown boxes of memories the day I fell onto wood chips. The same memory I sift through to prove I’m only clumsy. Sarah Houck once pulled me aside from our friends at the Mall to tell me that I lie too much. I lied back, “No. I don’t.” I’ve never actually burned my leg before. You are warm and clean and smell of vanilla soap and love. I find myself repeating these opposite-truths to appease the ravenous creature who lives in between my tonsils. If I feed it right, I am rewarded with a yellow quilted blanket embroidered with tiny daisies and you, who kisses me on my forehead. Mune ga hachikire-sōde. You grab my arm from the gear shift, reach between my seatbelt and unravel the words I’ve gifted you. “Nic is carefree. Nic is fun. Nic is cool and completely undamaged.” One day these lies will carry me away from my bloated body. Away like spit from a pastor’s mouth as it bursts from the lips. Soft lips, like buttery pillows and blanket static you chase away with wool balls. Let’s try again, go on a trip. A place we can crawl over smooth, oval stones and the shadows we left behind. To the mountains and their collection of gathered green leaves and blue birds who only chirp their truth. The Mustang may leave me then and drive itself towards the halfway line between before and now. I will try to keep my foot off of the brake.
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