A Quarterly Journal of Contemporary English Language Haibun
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March 2006, vol 2 no 1

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Julie Beveridge

Cold Hands Touch My Face

I consider leaving this place, pushing my thumb into the oncoming traffic and rolling through. There is always less to leave behind than waits ahead, you just have to know what cars to get into and which to wave on. I walk backwards down the motorway the wind egging me on. The first thing I see is an indicator—a family sedan, dusty mud flaps, empty baby seat slows and pulls over. His gentle bearded face smiles me into the passenger seat and I tell him that I'm going to the city, my car broke down and I have contacts there. He is safe, he fiddles with the radio whistling along to every new tune. The heat of the day lets me drift into sleep. I feel him driving next to me. I will wake up fresh, a whole new road ahead.

cold hands
touch my face
they are not mine

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