I think about
you, Maggie, how you stamped your bare feet in
the muddy
orchard and screamed profanity in front of the hired
hands, how
you stepped into the irrigation tank naked, how your
mother cried
as she dragged you back to the house and dialed the
doctor from
the old black phone on the wall, her voice breaking,
and how when
the ambulance came the men twisted your arms
behind your
back so that you couldn’t scratch at their faces, go for
their
eyeballs. I think about the boy next door, peering from behind
a tree,
already missing your wild invitations that made him shudder
with
pleasure. And how your mother said he was not a nice young
man, to take
advantage of your illness.
I think about
you, after you married the man who thought he
could take
care of you, how you entertained me in your tiny kitchen
with the
yellowed window shades and the dishes piled in the sink,
the red blot
of lipstick on your cup, the overflowing ashtray, as you
brazenly blew
smoke rings in the air.
I see you,
Maggie, sobbing on the side of the desert road,
slamming your
fists on the hood of your broken-down car. I see you,
unkempt,
flailing your arms at the drivers who pass by with their
eyes fixed
straight ahead. I heard how you said you would have
gone in
either direction if someone had just stopped.
And then I
see the years wind on, the chain-link-fenced
grounds, the
electrodes taped to your temples.
But
sometimes, Maggie, sometimes I see you catching a ride
with a
stranger, a man with suitcases and cash, and your future is
classy
hotels, and nightclubs, where your lipstick clings to the rim
of a highball
glass and your smoke rings float to the ceiling.
