The First of the Month

Undeodorized and radiant in rags she squats sullenly upon the crooked earth and pokes her brown finger at fat, red ants dragging a dead fly home. My reflection in her eyes dazzles the air from my lungs. I shrivel inside the vacuum of formic arms. Now's hourglass is frozen. The bubbling brook is foetid and the ancient, wondrous songbirds are chancrous. Against my dark void of memories of blood upon blood

White Clay, Nebraska, explodes with a thousand faces of my drunken race cashing their welfare checks.

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