...they say she gone mad...

whipped the way that skin gets torn when
bound the way that hands pray
there comes through this valley a ghost encased in gold
a rider with scars on his hands
and a fortune teller dying in the sun

she holds the home together with grit
hard the way that only your children's deaths can
sewn the way that dried up makes
there is dust in the distance
and the air doesn't want to move

a wolf raises his ears like sound had cracked
and watches the trio roll by
haunch over hunch and lost it would seem
save the smell of fear
from the house just ahead

she bars the door like fort
and watches with hard pale eyes
close like secrets they gather their strength in long breaths
but not enough
and they make a camp just outside

two days pass and she has not blinked
a cross in one hand and the rifle in the other
hoping one will protect her
and the other set her free

on the third day the fortune teller dies
and as the ghost gets drunk
the rider rips his right eye out and decides against the other
just as the corpse had said he would do

burned the way that desert is cracked
snared the way that paws trap
she is finally shocked into sleep
long the way of failed hunt
her grip on freedom slides

the ghost will take her soul
the rider the eye he thinks will suit
the fortune teller rises from the dead
and as the dust gets kicked up away away
the wolf moves into the home

arf 06