As a foundation: Last year there was an airshow
by the southwest county line. Over allium fields.
Beet farmers nearby pulled their yard dogs
into houses, glancing nervously up. Bob and Ted
gaped by a fence like straight brown bones.
The land dappled with sun and the minnowlike
shadows of arching planes. Then a woman
moved from the road out through gold weeds.
She walked, stepping high and regal to a platform
spread with quilts. They could make out baskets, limbs.
The figures there bent their heads to possible wine.
Her red coat blazed. Because Bob and Ted
saw her at the same moment, this would be the only subject
for years to come. Perhaps forever.
As if this meant the right to anything, to possession,
the seeing. The arrogance of stupid eyes.
Now, the two men drive reasonably through streets.
It is late spring, not quite yet summer.
There are tricycles, insectoid lawn chairs sunk in grass.
Stripes of invisible bees push the flowers,
the budding shrubs, over to rank bloom.
I want to ask you, says the driver, Bob.
About something you said the other night.
Wednesday. It is Saturday, picturesque.
Pre-febrile. I thought so, answers Ted.
He feels the vinyl seam of the armrest, its clothy imitation.
The stamped aping of a careful seam. They ride
past the old firehouse, past gardens of tulips and shards.
They try to wearily judge the next step, their earthquake
inevitable yet shocking as blood. From the hills above town,
kites rise in bursts of wind. The neighborhood gleams.
Linda Wojtowick grew up in Montana. She now lives in Portland, Oregon, where she can indulge her cinematic obsessions without restraint. She’s a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, and her work has appeared in Noble/Gas Quarterly, Visitant, Occulum, The Slag Review, and upcoming in Wax Seal. She can be tracked down on twitter at @LindaWojtowick.”