capricious heart

ritual

maya stein

Away from the instant orientation of home, there is still the instinct
for order. In the car, the Chapstick nestles in the well just under
the steering wheel. Gum lives to the left, with a set of napkins tucked
close in the event of spills. The water bottle’s upright in the cup holder,
the map sprawled open on the passenger-side seat. Whatever you need
is just an arm-length away, easily retrieved even in the throng
of traffic, or a curve on a high mountain pass. And this is good,
because the weather is unpredictable, and the highway long
and occasionally barren. The heart, too, is capricious, though here
you tuck everything else – your wanton wants, your certainty, your fear.