I’ve been wishing this existed, so I made it.
You’ve been warned.
Spring is here, kind of.
The men walk as if through the Arch of Constantine
riding their legs like chariots
conquistadors of the beaten path
clearing the unwild in saddle-soaped boots
The women swish and pause as if their denim were flamenco skirts, intuit the tempo from their dance partners admiring the bejeweled
portal, swish and pause, they demure at Puebloan knees, Navajo hemlines, they swish and pause to the beat of reverential disinterest
I learned how to do a breakout photo.
Kill your darlings is one of the writing terms which has become a mantra to me over the last year of homemaking.
Some days, the museum smells like rawhide bones in a pet store, not rotten but paused in a stage of decomposition ideal for shelving and inventory. Some days, the air is foul and new specimens can be tasted the way saltwater air belies the ocean long before it is seen. Today, the doors open wide for bones on grey carts, then bones on grey carts, and the museum smells only like sand blown in from the mesa.
Rooster walking through Albuquerque’s North Valley