the summer before i left idaho, my air conditioner broke—my house
was so hot, even the wax on my dental floss melted, its contents reduced
to a bundle of loose fibers as all things then broiled before
the ark of the covenant. what to do? i didn’t pay my landlord
enough to care about me or my heatstroke headache, and klansmen
pooled in the streets like tadpoles flipping in a black ditch, staining
my jeans with frogblood. what else to do—i tucked
my tail and ran away. i had always known, maybe, that day would come
eventually, despite my singing of idaho, birthplace of the aryan nations,
birthplace of my body. i had been practicing for a long time
how to leave even when there remains something worth fighting for.
