The wind drives her mad
On Route 60 in Magdalena, New Mexico, in the back row of the RV park of the Western Motel, in a ‘76 Dodge Tioga nineteen-foot motor home, really more like a van with a camper on it, hood parked to the north nearly flush up against a flourishing young cottonwood strapped behind two cuts of barbed wire beyond which rises the dusty orange red undulance of soft bodies that are distant hills, off into the high desert, north, north, that place of wisdom and I am south.
The finest time to consort with the north is on a Sunday about midday when the megaphone at the rodeo down the end of Main Street on the wide dirt road—well beyond your barbed wire—blats since ten cowboy couples, steers—that’s the call, this is the day, this is the walk . . . Horse, Horse
And to the east through blood red curtains above a kitchen sink.
“The sun’s a woman . . . a man is a mercenary”
That’s where she first pierces shards of sunlight at 5:30 in the morning. She is only stunning and not stabbing if she moves out a narrow back door—it too hung with blood red cloth—it is everywhere! A flapping skin of placenta hung to dry in the wind and sun
Like gleaming tissue across the wide screen where she sometimes sits, tight in a booth, a standing-room only home for one—moves in mocassins down the back bumper and drops to dirt ground and scrub, rattling a screen door against an aluminum one—and flies, flies!—and there she is as she unfolds her crouch, stunning the promise of morning
She has come from the west and brought death with her, having gotten to be better and better acquaintances with dying and that lovely seduction he pulled on Bonnie’s garden deck in Topanga.
The wind can drive her mad like the sun can drive her mad.
She wants it on her body.
It is all she yearns for.
She wants to break through.
She wants to be made love to.
Every warm corner, fold, laved with wind, sun.
She must have been spit to the sky at birth
because here she is approaching