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Friday, April 13, 2018

Frog and Toad 12 (from the plane)

An hour later, there’s a set of worn out bungee cords pulling taut over the trunk, a control box draped in yoga mats and tote bags. Babe guzzles warm ginger-spiked water. Despite the sweat she worked up wrestling the dolly, tilting the box out of the trailer, shattering the master panel on the first one she tried, she’s cold. It’s windy, and Griselda’s dead. Back at Big Think, she and Rabbit would’ve said a gentle passage over a coffee and moved on to the next task. Here in the desert, people don’t die. Or, they don’t die this way. There are common murders, exposure deaths, suicides on the mesa, the last months of cancer, heart failure, mitochondrious. She’s pulled her sweater back over the torn-hem tank top and filthy black leggings. She wishes she were wearing something more substantial, waxed canvas, hazmat, but it’s just as well. She can burn these clothes, later. Babe Snake is plenty selfish. She wants to feel loved. She wants its cascade and settle. She wants it there when she’s figuring out the best route from Rabbit’s to Frog’s. Fewest neighbors watching, fewest ditches, best place to cross the wash.

2 comments:

bloof said...

Anticipating the moment you send me this whole dang book, Babe.

Danielle said...

Bloof novels!