text ID: ODE TO THE 9,000-YEAR-OLD WOMAN
She was twenty-something when she got swallowed / by Los Angeles, before Los Angeles / was about the bustling.
The La Brea Woman, they call the female / bones unearthed from a warm Ice Age. It was / only around sixty degrees then.
She's got a piece missing from her / skull, from a blow to the head, probably, / because violence doesn't have a clear beginning.
In 1970, they transported her / body and some freak took her / femur, because everyone needs a taste.
Millions and millions of bones have been recovered / from DTLA's everbubbling asphalt; only hers / got a digital rendering of what she must have / looked like, if she fell off a mudflap.
What must it be like to be forced to / wait for gunk to cover you like a sticky shroud, / and then be subjected to relive it 9,000 years later / by people you don't understand?
Did you know the tar pits are just / a few inches deep? Death comes in / the form of hungry predators / and your own starvation; the dark / never does any of the killing.
And did you know that five minutes from the pits / is a BevMo! where you can buy as many bottles / as it takes to forget / the heaviness of this poor woman / who got dragged out of her sludge prison / for everyone to gawk and grope at?
I go to the IHOP / down the street where I can eat and pretend / the La Brea Woman is just a Sunday story, / not the oldest-known Angeleno, who despite her / best efforts died once and then some.
But I see her everywhere.
I see her on Sunset blvd staring at billboards, / believing the underwear models are gods, /
I see her at every bus stop I pass on jogs, / waiting to go on a return trip anywhere,
I see her in my room at night, turning / a lamp on and combing her hair — I see her everywhere / begging for her girlhood back.
And I see her / across from me in the IHOP booth right now. / She shakes her fractured head and pours white / into my coffee. It's 54° out today / and the 9,000-year-old woman / is alive in the city. end ID