WALKING THE TIMBERS

She ruined the experiment, glass and smoke like seared marshmallow.
A trail of clothing left behind.
She darted in and out of panchinko games, wearing an old panchromatic scarf,
Her father's photos,
Black and white,
Of mother and baby in cylindrical boxes.
Brushfires from here to there, oh, she warned, it's just to the end of the block.
Beyond that, one cannot drive or even walk.
In the next chamber, a tenorist sang unevenly when she strutted resplendently,
Carrying a swag of deerskin and a Bach cantata.
He watched as she stumbled over coarse fur, playing with her skin and his song.
And she was given the run of the land.


Maura Vazakas
© 1998