the fossil record
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Her twin only ever would say that
their father was maybe the worst
father ever, never saying he was
abusive, only that he was the worst.
In the dust of my dream, the thudding
color of the dead adobe, there is an
intimation of eventual repose, if not
comfort. We meet at the wind ravaged
corner, the sun doing its early afternoon
worst upon us. It is one of those wide
dead intersections in the American
Southwest of the mind. But it might
feel just like the Northwest as well,
with a damp and similarly desolate
intersection, traffic only a passing
hiccup in our conversation.
Knocking at the door one morning,
she asked me to come to a counseling
session for the sake of all involved, so
I washed my face, walked up the street.
Todd Young