pwatem

i, a lover of men and women, meandering before a high altar, safe in the crumbling tower— orphaned in self-denial, left with the obvious absurdity of god himself, over respectability and renegade ambitions, my delusions gave no comforting superstitions—

Listen first for anyone. Fill your pockets. Measure the ditch with a wad of gum. Listen. Stay still. Break open the gate with your fist. a backseat to torch. Ditch it. You will need someone, still. but later. from a pay phone. for the rope. Empty your pockets. Check for wild fur and the pant. who wad seats. or possums who hiss under wild shrub. Sharp shooters check the wind.

Help, I meant to shout to the girl, mute, wading near the pool’s edge, her wishes moneyless. I shoved her my dripping fistfuls—I have nowhere to put this.

The ark is bright- pulsing. Its floors—hay-dappled, wet-warped, buckling. Its stables are wide and filled with women. Women whipping around on all fours, their heads pulled back, their mouths a frothed blur. Women sleeping straight-backed against wood beams, women speaking in trilling chirps.

The ground is full of fossil. Roller coaster calcium in the ground. I’m talking dinos. I’m a paleontologist, Rachel. I’m on the cusp of being offered to lecture on the dinosaur at New York University. It is still a living issue. We still need to know what she is thinking. The lizard oil pumps still in my brain cerebrum. Higher power. Memory of my first Sinclairosaur. I, hugging her leg, plastique. I said to her then, at the gas station, “Take it.” Take what happened to me. TAKE THESE PEAS OFF THE FUCKING FLOOR.

The history of my stupidity will not be written. For one thing, it’s late. And the truth is laborious.