| My first memory of you is in an ancient
room, with rusty tools hanging on the wall, shotguns and rifles propped
up in every corner, a nutria hide stretched across the wall, and a
blood scream so loud that it still lives in my head, like a ghost.
Creosote was thick in the room. Outside the window, dust blew between
the pines. Little tornadoes formed throughout the air, as the sun
died on the horizon. Then, there was the time you caught the gar.
I remember how you struggled as you dragged it onto the shore of Lake
Ponchartrain. It's eyes were full of fire, and it moved on wooden
wheels. It wore a suit of armor that only we could see. It lashed
out at me. You laughed. Your amber hair flowed all around against
the July sun.
|
Rio:
A Journal of the Arts