The stars smell like Play-Doh tonight. It must be the encroaching rain or swarm of plastic angels bearing false prophets. She is my Manitou blue-eyed peace prophet. One of the best feelings I ever had in my guts, there at the postcard spinner in some kitsch moccasin shoppe with the rubber Native American drums and feathered hatchets made in China. It was a beyond beyond momentary bliss, a happiness to be alive like no other. We ate ice cream and drank rain. Her hand was warm and soft in mine. And there she is now, centuries later, asleep in our bed, in our room, in our house, on our land… I hunger for and have her love. And she has mine.

By

Aaron Echoes August

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