Back straight, chin high, posies pinstriped down cotton, legs tucked beneath skirt, dirt in her hair, bare wrists, twists of desert grasses where buttons might have been, green eyes gone. What is she seeing, the woman? What has she done?
In spry fingertips, a porcelain saucer, spinning, spinning, stalling the setting sun. Black flies form idle congregations, unmoved by evening draught or dust, by what she’s ceding to infant shadows. Her best intentions can’t hold it in her throat. Rasping, gut-heavy, feral fork-tongued song, carving its place between the dunes. And all the time the saucer spinning, spinning, marking time.