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

their pickup.

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