by Jenny Browne

Six hours into the Texas desert, headlights bubble-wrap the darkness where others who have just crossed over walk days without speaking.

The first thing she did was change her shoes.

Her father drank the half-finished mimosas left on the veranda, muttering “those are like five dollar bills flying away.”

Don’t we all possible a different self in that distant, visible land, living like cargo, smuggling one body into another?

By morning, the scenery should show up, mesquite …