The Opium Den

(PRAYER AT DEVILS GULCH BY THE DISREMEMBERED)

                          tonight
dogs worry their chains
she can still smell the raw cold steel of the gun barrel
the cherry grip handle, crosshatched, well oiled
tonight she tosses sage, cedar, sweet grass and tobacco into to rubbish bin

forsaking all protection

the acrid taste of a backhand                  copper
                                              rises in her mouth
                                                 brings her home

to

calloused hands, edge of the woods, unseen
where furled leaves turn black when no one sees
beneath the weight