The air near Peterson Butte tastes like
hot pulpy watermelon that was refrigerated
one too many times, or cooked pumpkin-
spindles of lightning crack the sieve of the
slate sky and for a moment I hear God
over the airways, interrupting the Writer's Almanac
and my sense of calamity. I sit in my car before entering
my place of work were people have thrown cats
at my face and tap out the words that lose meaning
in transit. The shift and symbol keys I smack
         e RRAT ica L ly
because it looks prettier.

WH@t ar$e& yOU u=p to?!!!/)

Nothing. You?

eaT*in%g RHO!deDen^reN( ~flOWe-rS.

Cool.

My back curves against the pillows on the couch,
his thick finger       pressingagainstmynavel
but I don't mind- not now, anyway.

We talk in tomb tones about how we will cut out
my back stabbing womb and fill the cavity with mortician's
paste that we made out of moth wings and
rain water collected in Mason jars. I'm throughly
sick of hypothetical ideas and of being a teenager,
but I'm only half sick of being a woman. This will mean
something to them in the                           l      o      n      g
run.

I want this summer to be a riotous one,
full of running down the river paths in someone
else's clothing, red wine that stains the carpet,
Castle Crashers and highlighter quotations covering our skin
like armor against sluggishness and stability.

I want to give the impression that I'm just
as intense as the sun.

I want to call you in the middle of the
day with all my doors and windows open, tell
you I'm leaving and listen to your
breath enter the 109 degree atmosphere in ways
that leave a chain of beaded sweat
around my neck and breast, my favorite seasonal
look.

I want to make the barrel of her ribs
heave in laughter and not constricted airways.

I want so much from you and nothing from
myself- you whine high pitched and call it
unfair. I
slice
open a peach with Dad's
carving knife and, placing the pit in your hair,
agree with you. But I'm disappointed;
one month in my shoes and you're already bleeding.
Thought you were made of peach pits.

"It's pretending to be early September," Leonard
said, dropping stones. "That's why the feral people aren't
as active. It's a shame, really. I like seeing
the herds when I hunt." Then he sighed, and
pushed the last boulder off the edge into the place
where we used to dump the bodies. I look over and
see my face floating in the water.

Spiders make webs on my rear view mirror, and
I sit, perch, on the hood, watching the horses graze and
the llamas move over moss covered
river rock, strong legs and chapped, cracked feet.
I tap out the words th+IS `i*S bE(aUT&I#fuL, but
I don't say that I'm thinking of the peach pit
in your hair.