Muscle Memory

Some things stay
forever in a body. The flavor
of an old fruit, or my father’s humming
from the distant front seat
of his car. The color of a childhood
room, or the rearview mirror

where his eye glanced up for seconds
to see me. His voice, a breeze
snuck through the cracked window.
Some things the body
holds dear. Others, it leaves
behind. How a voice
rises, an eye shakes.
The body drives past them.

I am at the wheel now, father,
and the breeze is humming
outside the window.
On the road, the lines lie
like ribs. The sky is bright as my old room,
the one you painted blue.