after Diane Seuss
Other than the purple trees, she is construction site spotlight lit: a hardly-spike flashed in a field at night that the neighbor-boys don’t give the dignity of a hunt. There is no need to wear camo in pitch black. Preparing to bare herself to the crowd, she slips a hand behind her back. As if crossing her fingers will protect her. As if the boys in the field care to learn about fairness; a realization she seems to have made already—her fingers don’t move. Knuckles lock like knobby knees on young hoofed legs. She lifts a harmonica to her lips. He lifts the stock to his shoulder. I splash water on my face. She tongues the comb and takes a breath. He tongues his lips and holds his breath. I wonder if I will spend my whole life like this. She thrusts her mic to the crowd. His finger bends steadily. I stare at my reflection. The guitar gets louder. The engine turns over. I can’t stand the lights in here. She steps off the stage. He drags the carcass through the pasture. I go back into the bedroom. The lights are too bright. The song is over. The deer is in the truck bed. My fingers aren’t crossed. The lights are too bright. She closes her eyes. He has blood on his hands. The lights are too bright.
