The winter sky ragged and silver, like ice unevenly scraped off a windshield on a bitter January morning.
Cheyenne, elfin Cheyenne, thin and proud and bright, a young woman with blood under her fingernails
and the golden hue stolen from the summer harvest in her shock of hair, the brown dirt on the shorn sides.
We smoke cigarettes beneath Father’s bedroom window, conspirators and comrades, all around rogues,
telling crude and cruel jokes, planning our escape to the sunny land of San Diego, made Eden in our minds.
We have a bottle of liquor set aside when we finally make it across the tall and high suicide bridge together.
The hopeful twilight of first cracks in the morning, Venus disinclined to fuck off, and she tells us secrets of
the places the dead know to score peace and magic, and the ground dust of the fairies who once betrayed us.
We will line them up like pixie sticks, the innocent cocaine, and regain what they took while our heads were turned.
And Little Cheyenne, who can not be made redundant due to madness and malcontentedness in extravagant living,
tells me after she gets done bussing the tables at the Paradise Grove Club, off of 75 on the abandoned Kentucky border,
we’ll get this tenuous and sweet reaching for the sun well and truly done, in her beat up CRX we’ll cross the desert that
claimed Mother all those years ago, and we’ll triumph over the boney and icy fingers of angels, delighting in squeezing our hearts.
I hug her tight, thinking this is the perfect moment, knowing it will happen, but it has not yet come.