By the time we met her,
it was forty years late,
the was was 16 mph and her house knew how to shake.
She lived in a desert, where
there’s land on land in squares,
acres of dry, dusted dirt and
little specs that make houses.
When we came in, I could hear a type of squeaking
as she sat in her spot, and asked if we’d seen Jeopardy.
Her calves were especially blue
against cream-colored couch,
toes and feet more purple, but
it don’t hurt as much, she says
She liked living there, the privacy.
With her copper animals, wood walls,
and collector’s clutter.
Everything of hers was there from the ashes on the shelf
to his shadow in the hallways or
his back on a tractor in the sun.
She said she heard mice when
she fell asleep in the living room.
That they looked brown,
that they were chewing
the electrical.
She said
she wanted a gun, to keep from hearing the squeak
of a mouse over the television
’cause she was starting to get mad.
She’s waiting to die
I thought
sitting in the living room
on threadbare couch
mad without her TV remote
seeing shadows in the hallway
if this is what she’s living for
When we left I didn’t think much about her
other than the way she’s a lot like you,
in the outlines of her eyes, her nose,
the way she got angry but not mean
In the desert, nobody wants a fire
the land is perfectly flammable, made to spread
but it’s California and it’s famous
so it burned
No one heard it, it was quiet
just the squeaking of electrical
and the outlines of copper mice.
