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  • Tell me the one about the jack. Tell me the one about the jackrabbit with those side eyes.

    Tell me the one about the malign look we saw on the jackrabbit's face.

    Tell me the one about the clouds at night on the highway, walking, walking into the headlights on the dark shoulder, with no flashlight, using our feet as eyes. The way it used to be in war, in the dark lonely guerrilla places, walking. Tell me how the one cloud above formed into a roadrunner and ran across the sky, and it was freezing like Iraq and Guatamala: whisper it to me.

    Tell me in the voice you used to use, in the totalitarian spaces, when we could not say what we meant, even in our own language. Especially in our own language. Baby, tell me.

    Tell me the one about the car.

    It looked normal.

    Who would know it had a bomb inside.

    Tell me the one about the white car. All the white cars. Why white cars? Why did the death squad boyos use white cars? White bugs in Montevideo, white sedans in Buenos Aires.

    It's all right. We're safe.

    You can whisper in my ear what happened when that white Ford Falcon in Buenos Aires Argentina came driving way too slowly down Maipu, past the smart leather goods in the windows, and the arm came out to grab you. You can speak it now. The arm did not grab you. It did not whisk you away. It did not keep you in the Navy Engineering School, it did not take you high up in the sky in a plane. It did not drop you into the River Plate.

    You can whisper it to me. (We're up on a dune, 500 feet. Talk close into my ear.)

    We're in the desert. Nobody here. Just a couple planes doing low strafes out of China Beach.

    (Sketch by Susan)
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