Laika looks up to the sky, a shooting star branded down her snout. She has been trained for this sacrifice. She is ready to die inside the vacuum. She will sit still while her world shakes her to the heavens. She will be brave and only whimper as she starts to starve. Her brown eyes will appear in the punctuation of manifestos, and stained at the bottom of mugs left behind by discussion. Laika, svyatoy progressa, show us the way.

Negro Matapacos looks forward to the enemy, blood tied round his neck. His teeth gleam yellow like fat. He will be brave, and growl while he rips and tears, fur like body armor. He will not whimper when kicked, but go again for the ankles. His black paws will fall with boots, with sneakers and chanclas in a riot, and run with the beats of hand drums and hiphop. Negro Matapacos, santa de la violencia, show us the way.

Guinefort looks down to the child, ribs like a home. She will slay the viper, and bloody her teeth. She will remain brave, wrapped around her charge, while she is slaughtered. She will seem fierce, quiet in death like in life, with her snout resting on long paws. Her grey muzzle will soften the lips of lovers and caretakers, and be rolled in warm blankets and curtained windows. Guinefort, saint de la sécurité, show us the way.

Cerberean saint Triple-Headed revolution Sacrificial hound

Red oak tree waving

Its leaves laced with memories

The milk sours and spoils if the calf wants not.

The leaves take the wind and find the earth.

And the warmth of the day is stolen by clouds’ birth.

In every shadow

Breath and beat work silently

the mountains are an indigo smear this evening, a cobalt haze in the cold dusk. the blacktop shines, wet and blue, an inverted sea of sky. it only rains here when it's cold enough to sting.

god, it’s nasty out, people say as we stream out to our cars, and they're right. januaries in the alpine desert have teeth. snow-sleet-sun-slick-set, a sheet of black ice waits for our unsuspecting tires. i take the drive home slow.

i'm stationed in an unlovable place, bristling with thorns and tumbleweeds, too hot and ugly in the summer and too cold and mean in the winter. everything that thrives here is ugly and mean, too, adapted to bite first and ask questions later. i think my fangs are growing in.

the mountains are only pretty when there’s snow on them, they said back in november, when the desert was still remembering how to be cruel. how dare you, i wanted to snarl. as if the mountains care what anyone thinks. as if they need anyone to defend them.

these days i'm more creature than captain. my needs have simmered down to survival. between the roar of engines and the smell of jet fuel, it's no wonder my uniform is hardening into a carapace. i understand the scorpions. i, too, need a dark hole to hide in.

you’re still new, you’ll learn to hate it eventually. i'm still wondering when eventually is. this stark plateau never wanted us here. the sand scours our hangars in july and the ice freezes them shut in january. don't you wonder if it hates us too?

my fingers curl like a corpse's on the steering wheel. through the sleet beating on my windshield, the mountains are an arpeggio of sawteeth. i love this desert. beautiful and ruthless, impressive and uncaring. i don't need it to love me back. i just need it to teach me.

No candles, no hymns, no stained glass... I place my hand where the paint had peeled away. Your boards are splintered but unfallen, sun-struck and still holding out their arms. I don't need to be told You were once called sacred - i can feel it: Your presence, more open in your ruin than in your days of order. And i realize: i'm not waiting for answers... I only want to be with You in the quiet.