My mother scraped her leg on a picnic table and the wound
festered in Death Valley from the heat.
We’d been arguing about the two men who’d followed me,
calling Here, pussy, pussy, their dog lolling out of the back of
Where did you meet them, my mother asked, fixing her hair.
They followed me from the showers, I said, omitting my terror,
washing halfdressed, worried they’d barge in; worse. As if a
bit of pink cloth could stave them off, those two men and their
dog, six hungry eyes. A bit of cloth and one eyehook lock.
The next morning we drove out to the desert. We stopped the
truck. The motor ticked a while. A wake of footprints tamped
out from a passing hare.
The rest was empty.
from subTerrain #70