Along Leona Canyon, it’s past time for dog walkers to crowd the trail, we head out, hills greener from rain, a private consult between me and my partner-in-crime from the thirteenth
He expands in my pocket like a tampon filled with blood. He’s getting bigger and stronger, beats his way out of my purse. Now there’s a hole in the leather, wallet
He slinks around in a navy-blue hoodie and sweatpants, black leather gloves pulled over his hands to hide several missing digits, my fault for not shaping five good fingers from
He floats in my dreams like debris from a Shreveport wreck, and in a last ditch effort to ban his jetsam from washing up on my shore and decomposing on
After listening to the opening riff of Hotel California, he moans in the passenger seat next to me, arghhhh! I suggest he take a chill pill. He groans again, but
We’ve had this talk before when I didn’t know who else would listen to me standing at the last bench of Leona Canyon—you know the one—dedicated to the Jalquin people circled by