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Miss Molly Rockin' in the House of Blue Light

You've been a certain angel, you've been doing a deed, you've
been in mourning..."

-- Michael Lutin on the 12th House

Now you trade your wings for incarnation, commit a quick
sin and leap into technicolor, you're visible as sweat,
your feet leave prints. Is the desert dead as they say? The
hummingbird sharpens her beak then disappears, unsolved
caper, arrow of possibility. There is no best time to move, I
think, only that momeent when you can, when the plate tilts
and the peas fall off, when the window opens and the wind
sucks you through. Here is the paradox of free will, the wind
pulling you with your feet firm on either side. I'm gone in
a day, sleeping bag, arrow pointing Go, that sly permissive.
I set off in a white Mazda, low to the ground, flashy with its
sleek lines screaming "Ticket me!" Eighty miles per hour,
ninety. In St. Louis, I switch to something indigo with the
lines of a shadow and slip South and West. Yukka, rabbits,
bubonic plague. I need the same heat on me as in me, dry
and crisp, to be the only water for miles around. Bugs
hover like disciples, bright revelation on exposed flesh. The
humans are pruney and caught in a grin. Everything looms
at night as if listenting to see if I'll break, if my prayer will lift
me to the tops of the rocks then throw me to the canyon
floor crying Whoa. Ghosts walk the canyon talking about
nothing much. The one who drew me in a game of straws
approaches my tent, leans on my bladder and attaches
electrodes to my heart. Still, I pee on red earth, hear death
stroll away, silent as ants on an inchworm. When the rain
comes I dream of sex, the kind you wake up to, glowing.

-- Maureen Seaton



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