Yesterday: something old. Today: something new.

Letter to the Pistolsmith

As I watched my dog roll inside the ribcage of a long-dead cow I thought of you. Your name escapes me, but please allow me to describe the cow: she was half a ribcage, really, and rented hide. As for color, you may assume splotches, black- or brown-and-white, but you must picture my yellow dog ecstatic inside of her. I smelled what it was that the cow was becoming and although the spires of her ribcage had been picked prettily clean, it may only have been a matter of weeks. She had been found. Some explanation as to the matter of the dog's ecstasy escaped me, but I wanted it (happiness, I mean). As for myself, I have my own immaculate ribcage, a one-room schoolhouse, and even though I (I admit) have been picked at as if by beaks, I am not so tattered. We met once. You talked of metal, wood and mother-of-pearl, but I was distracted with my death. What I mean to say is that I never knew your name, but I understood the thing you said about happiness, what it meant, even temporarily, like an oyster with a pearl. I am certain you meant the gun, but I was distracted because I wanted to be a mother. In your workroom the rain was made of metal, I was being hit by triggers. Your workroom limned by by barrels black as a river a cow dies beside. What was that thing you said about the body? I am certain you meant the gun, but I was distracted because I wanted description and the gun had already been described.

--Cecily Parks