*She wasn’t fixed, necessarily, on happinesswhich she couldn’t, in any case, distinguishfrom luck. What she wanted was to flourish.Happiness, she said once, is for amateurs.He spoke earnestly, looking into her eyes for confirmation—of what? She listened as though there could be a secretwrapped in each of his words. His breath was a little bad.His eyes, round and small and withoutnoticeable lashes. Like the eyes of an eel, she thought.Yes, she answered. In a voice he canstill hear—as low and sureand fragile as lichens. A soundlike stars in the daytime sky. Yes,we’ll make it last.Which is when a squadron of Californiaquail burst from the coyote brush.Because if love doesn’t survive, why would you want to?
from “Mojave Ghost”
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March 3, 2025
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