Would she rather be at the shopping mall checking out clearance racks
than sailing on this red shoe of a skateboard moving her closer to the abyss,
not that Maggie knew what the abyss looked like.
Maybe a new department store where designer clothes
were scattered higgledy-piggledy on tables, not even hangers.
Forget shopping. Right now in this moment,
the first order of business,
to rescue her grandmother's tattoo
from the hands, calves, or chest of that buffoon
who had absolutely swept her off her feet,
only to abandon Maggie to an off-duty traffic cop
who hoarded skateboards.
Now she was inside her own video game,
her hands clammy with a thin coat of luck.
On her left,
she saw a mountain as sharp as a swear word,
and sailed her carpet to its widow's peak,
looked down once again, saw the tabula rasa
where in former times, her grandmother's tattoo
had encircled her ankle. Now robbed, bare, uncertain,
Maggie felt she was the last live link in a line of women,
who had arrived here.
And where was here?
She heard an old woman's voice,
Your eyes are open like a cow on the hillside.
All she could see was a slope
covered in a tureen of red autumnal leaves
marked by several hundred monuments
pimpled with rocks.