Babayaga

So this one driving, Oliver,

he’s not much of a riddle, is he?
Dancing with shallow musical steps
from one iced oyster tray to the next,
only as constant as a crooning radio signal.
But he makes for a good, soft bullet
as we now aim him true, picking up velocity
as he’s shot toward Basha’s plotted point.
She is in the front seat and
she thinks I can’t see her, but I can,
she is not as invisible as she would like to be.
Her pale silhouette leans over,
whispering what into the driver’s ear.
What? I cannot hear her
but he does, doesn’t he.
She will keep wrapping him up,
enshrouding him in her ghostly whispers,
until her bidding is done.

XV

High in the barn loft, the afternoon light came through siding cracks in long, diagonal shafts that Zoya thought looked like golden swords leaning at rest. She was curled up naked, her arms wrapped around Will, as they both lay beneath the thick red wool blanket, protected from the autumn chill. She liked the way her naked breasts pressed against his chest, she liked the way her bare hip wrapped around his warm thigh, she liked stroking his leg and feeling its strength. She sniffed at his armpit, he had not bathed for two days and now the rank toxins from all his various adventures filled her nostrils and made her smile. This was literally a part of him, these tiny, stinky tumescent atoms that emanated from his pores and, inhaled and ingested through her sinuses, became a part of her. There was magic in that, a slight and playful communion bonding them together; she sniffed again, deeply this time. She loved how rotten he smelled. Then she fell asleep again.