Grubby violet dusk. Everywhere, the tongue-tang of rust. Everywhere endless grass. We push the truck until it stops beside a huge rhizome of concrete and broken glass. We pull our faces out of its violet shards and stare into the dark mass of the factory’s throat. In buildings like this, some of us had bottled glue, stitched animal skin coats. We remember sweet blood in the hinges of our hands, fur in our lungs. We clamber over the toothless windowsills and land on the factory’s cool concrete tongue. Rooms of animal suits, rooms of hooves, of hoses. Dark drains. One by one the others put on their palomino coats. Then they are gone, their long legs leaving a wound in my throat. Outside, the prairie is empty and hot. Beneath my palm the prairie’s heaving slows to a trot, to a walk. Beneath my palm the prairie rolls over and stops.

Claire Wahmanholm
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