Tobacco dry, money and a carnival on the way again, the moon begins her due-west march down the aisle, donning thin clouds as a veil.
Across the street from Divine Intervention Auto Repair, behind the Dairy Queen, my mother opened a nail salon named Alimony. The women inside are never my mother’s age.
The dog at the gate was a warning: What was ours, was ours. She was tied there when the gate alone was not enough, the wooden fence disassembled, the hemlocks laid bare across the path removed.
I’d run the woods in furs stolen from my mother’s locked closet, hoping for hunters in tree stands— spend days crouched, unnoticed, where lumberjacks felled pines. I had exhausted all my options.