Chee Brossy

Issue #
February 18, 2013


Driving down  from the Tsaile  mountains  juniper and  piñon are sisters  grow together.

She said hide your  jewelry from the people they don’t have  to know we had a ceremony

tuck the turquoise in your shirt  even though it pinches your skin.  Road is water siphon

from the tank  wrap it with rubber  inner tube flayed in strips.  Water bubbles onto  your

pants on the  ride home  bubbling  from all  the open  blue water  jugs in the  truck  bed

plastic bags  tied as  lids wind shrieking  your ears.  Down away turnoffs muddy cars and

trucks  stranded muck swallowing wheels past the trading post dogs on the  road old gas

pumps  sealed up fluorescent  light trees hollow.  The hills purple  here purple  clay with

rocky  mesa tops  like  castles  in Quixote.  This  is not  old  sixty-six  but  it has  the feel

sound  of a single car rushing  closing roar blinks past its wake  tinny echoing  your hair

catching  wind.  A hogan  north of  the highway  on  the plain  shadow of the  mountain.

Gone  his wife and beauty  queen daughter  clan uncle Carson will live  there  alone.  He

will die on this road in a car head-on his friend running drunk from the wreck. Carson a

mechanic  always  with  his  hands  knobby  at  the  knuckles  building  stories  with  his

dancing  wrist talking fingers  the carburetor  shot you  have to  rebuild  it.  But  now the

hogan  stands empty  they  built it  but the  relatives  said  this is  our land you can’t  live

here. The road  carves a fall  and winter into the ground where you’ll live land  of sloping

castles bluing mountains always.  Always on the trembling  road before and behind  tuck

your necklace close to your skin.

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