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FICTION IN AMERICA

POETRY

IN OTHER WORDS

FOREIGN DOSSIER

REGIONS

"I George,"

IN PRINT

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Duff Brenna

from "the altar of the body, part one: may a lecherous lay

The first time I see her she is steering a Lincoln Continental through the neighborhood. Slow as vodka logic she comes, looking left and right, searching for something. Tree leaves reflect fractal patterns off her windshield, smearing her image, bringing her in and out of focus.

I´m on the porch, sweaty from working in the Minnesota heat, my shirt clinging to my back, my toes steaming inside my shoes. I´m smoking my pipe and drinking a can of Grain Belt and watching the Lincoln, the bumper low, sniffing the asphalt. It´s an old car, a four-door boater, champagne-colored, with rust patches showing through the wheel-wells, roof dented in the center looking like a little birdbath or a holster for a cannonball. The tires suck at the hot pavement. The engine is idling. A valve-lifter ticks beneath the hood.

When she gets closer I see platinum hair, bushy, like a dandelion gone to seed. Her hair shines in the sun for a second, then darkens as the car enters shade, then it shines again. When the car comes parallel, she spots me. The passenger window is open and she is leaning toward it, keeping one hand on the wheel. Her pale skin and pale hair make me think of Icelandic girls with hard cheekbones and translucent skin and eyes bold as glaciers.

The rest of the car eases forward and I can see a man pushing it, a big man with big shoulders, his huge hands splayed across the trunk. His head is down, his back bull-like bulges, his legs churn in slow-motion. He glances at me and I see heavy-lidded eyes. Strands of hair cling to his forehead. His breath is harsh, sobbing with effort.

The woman pulls the car to the curb and the man leans his forearms on the lid for a second, then he straightens and pulls his shoulders back, rolls them and groans. I don´t know if I´ve ever seen a chest so big, nor shoulders so wide or a neck so thick. He puts his hands on his hips and grins lopsided and says, "She´s a heavy hussy, man."

I point my pipe at the old Lincoln. "Lincolns," I say.

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