|
Running
Wild By SIEANNEN BELL
She
is
running.
She
is
running
wild.
She
is
a
tall,
bony
child.
Tangled
red
hair
flies
out
behind
her
as
bare
feet
kick
up
loose
clods
of
earth.
The
stalks
of
corn
rustle
and
sigh
in
the
small
wind
she
leaves
behind
her.
The
moon
is
high
and
orange
in
the
Missouri
sky.
She
stops
once
to
pull
a
long
red
ribbon
from
the
pocket
of
her
cutoffs.
She
runs
again,
trailing
the
crinkled
streamer
behind
her.
A
chorus
of
coyotes
sing
from
off
in
the
distance.
Her
breath
is
heavy
and
quick.
She
has
been
running
for
almost
an
hour.
She
has
been
running
in
successive
circles
around
acres
of
farmland
that
surround
her
parents’
house.
She
does
not
look
to
either
side.
She
does
not
worry
about
the
deep
wells
her
mother
has
told
her
are
hidden
in
the
fields.
She
feeds
off
of
her
own
desperation.
She
says
she
is
never
going
home.
She
is
running.
She
is
running
wild. I
sit
cross-legged
in
the
newly
tilled
earth
of
my
garden.
The
sun
slants
from
low
in
the
west.
The
cicadas
are
beginning
their
nightly
cacophony.
I
have
mixed
rich
compost
into
the
red
clay
that
grinds
to
a
fine
powder
between
my
fingers
and
is
taken
away
by
a
stray
wind
off
the
river.
I
drink
from
the
plastic
jug
in
my
hands.
Candy
mint
tea.
Sweet
sun-warmed
rush
of
taste.
I
look
toward
the
small
patch
of
herbs
growing
in
the
middle
of
the
yard.
The
burgundy
pink
leaves
of
the
candy
mint
stand
out
against
the
darker
green
of
peppermint
and
catnip.
I
smile
as
a
fat
black
cricket
skips
over
my
bare
toes
and
heads
towards
the
edge
of
the
property. Fireflies,
cicadas
and
crickets.
The
soft
slow
glow
of
southern
nights
on
the
Midwestern
prairies.
I
remember
these
same
nights
as
a
child
living
in
a
thin-walled
house
in
the
middle
of
endless
fields
of
corn
and
soybeans.
I
remember
sneaking
out
of
my
bedroom
window
late
at
night
just
to
spin
under
a
full
moon
and
listen
to
the
wind
shudder
through
the
tall
stalks
of
corn.
Oh
yes,
I
was
always
running
wild
as
a
little
girl.
My
mother
was
as
likely
to
find
me
on
the
barn
roof
or
at
the
tiptop
of
a
tree
as
she
was
anywhere
else.
It
was
only
my
little
sisters
that
kept
me
halfway
tamed.
They
never
could
run
as
fast
or
as
far
as
I
could.
I
would
always
slow
my
pace
for
them.
They
were
smaller
and
more
delicate.
The
littlest
one
calling
my
name
from
the
lowest
branch
in
the
tree
always
sent
me
scrambling
back
down
the
wide
rough
trunk
to
haul
her
up
under
my
arm.
Her
great
blue
eyes
and
fine
blond
curls
making
her
a
Botticelli
virgin
at
the
tender
age
of
four.
As
we
grew
older
they
became
tame
and
compliant,
dumb
to
the
rampant
destruction
all
around
them.
I
grew
warier
and
quicker.
My
father
tracked
me
further
and
learned
to
wait
longer.
A
real
predator
loves
intelligent
prey
because
there’s
really
no
point
in
killing
something
that
was
never
alive.
Later,
even
after
I
escaped
my
parents’
house
I
could
not
escape
that
sense
of
constantly
being
hunted.
My
body
tensed
with
watching
even
when
there
was
nothing
to
watch.
I
tried
to
promise
myself
tranquility.
I
sought
out
peace
and
stillness
but
I
have
failed
completely.
My
mind
will
not
be
quiet.
Night
sweats
mimicking
the
touch
of
a
man’s
hands
inside
my
body
taunt
me
whenever
I
allow
myself
to
sleep
long
enough
to
dream.
The
sun
slips
over
the
hilly
edge
of
the
city.
I
sit
and
listen
awhile
to
the
building
symphony
of
the
early
summer
night.
I
drink
the
tea
down
to
the
last
honey
thick
dregs.
The
ground
is
still
warm
and
soft
under
my
bare
legs.
I
stand
up
slowly.
I
take
the
jug
and
amble
back
towards
the
house.
Somewhere
several
blocks
away
I
hear
a
car
gun
its
engine
and
the
unruly
shouts
of
a
group
of
boys.
I
stand
on
the
back
steps
and
watch
twenty
or
thirty
moths
and
a
few
june
bugs
banging
and
dancing
against
the
bare
bulb.
A
suicidal
tango
towards
light.
I
let
the
screen
door
slam
behind
me
and
watch
them
scatter
a
moment
before
regrouping.
Driven
by
instinct,
they
cannot
see
this
bare
light
bulb
as
anything
but
the
moon
they
believe
they
are
following.
I
tread
quietly
through
the
dark
house.
I
know
my
feet
are
leaving
earthy
tracks
behind
me
on
the
hardwood
floor.
I
stop
a
moment
to
listen
to
the
messages
on
the
machine.
“Hey
Sieannen.”
Long
pause.
“I’ve
been
thinking
about
you.”
Slow
sigh.
“I
need
to
see
you.” I rub the bottom of my foot against my calf and listen carefully to his voice.
“I’m
in
town
tonight.”
The
heavy
intake
of
breath
that
I
recognize
as
a
deep
drag
off
a
cigarette.
I
can
see
him
rolling
it
between
his
fingers,
contemplating
smoke
and
burning
paper. “The Common Ground, around ten, ok?” Three beats.
“Damn,
I’ve
missed
you.”
Exhalation.
Click. I
walk
up
the
long
stairs
and
stand
in
the
dark
alone.
Dreamy
strains
of
trip-hop
trail
through
the
small
room.
A
woman’s
voice
whispers
about
bells,
flowers
and
throwing
herself
into
deep
water.
The
wind
rushes
in
and
out
of
the
room
through
the
open
window.
I
am
standing
behind
sheer
curtains
that
move
and
wrap
around
my
body
until
I
am
veiled
in
gauze
that
sticks
to
my
sweaty
skin.
I
untangle
my
fingers
from
the
fabric
and
press
them
against
the
small
breeze.
I
watch
the
moon
rise
slowly
over
the
river
as
if
it
were
swimming
through
molasses.
The
sharp
scent
of
cheap
incense
and
cigarettes
wafts
up
from
the
street
below
and
I
lean
my
face
against
the
chipping
paint
of
the
window
frame.
Sometimes
if
I
stand
here
long
enough
just
breathing
I
imagine
that
I
can
smell
him.
His
particular
cigarettes,
Winston
Silvers,
the
musky
summer
smell
of
his
long
hair,
the
sweaty
little
boy
smell.
I
smile
when
I
think
of
him.
My
Peter
Pan,
my
lost
boy
with
eyes
as
green
as
foliage
wet
with
rain.
A
red
leaf
falls
from
a
maple
tree
and
hangs
suspended
in
an
air
current.
It
spins
in
front
of
me
for
half
a
moment
before
continuing
its
long
descent
towards
the
cracked
pavement
below.
In
my
mind
I
see
him
on
a
brilliant
summer
day
stripped
down
to
his
waist.
He
is
standing
in
water
up
to
his
knees.
A
long
fat
fish
in
his
hands
glimmers
silver
in
the
sunlight.
His
hair
is
loose
and
mussed
from
the
wind. I
see
this
picture
and
I
want
to
reach
out
and
touch
brown
skin
and
sunburned
lips.
We
cooked
that
fish
over
a
small
fire
in
the
early
evening.
When
the
fish
was
brown
and
crisp,
we
doused
it
in
lemon
and
ate
with
our
fingers.
I
miss
him.
I
miss
lemon-scented
fingers
tracing
my
face
under
a
half-full
moon. I
catch
myself
cursing
his
wife
into
quiet
oblivion,
as
if
by
concentration
alone
I
could
cause
her
to
disappear
and
make
him
mine,
all
mine.
In
the
same
instant
that
I
construct
the
thought
I
laugh
at
myself.
I
should
know
better
than
that
by
now.
I
unwind
myself
from
the
curtains
and
spin
across
unswept
hardwood
floors
to
the
last
moans
of
song.
Eight
o’clock.
Time
to
be
going.
Time
to
forget
useless
brooding
for
awhile.
I
flip
lights
on
as
I
walk
through
the
house
and
promenade
naked
in
front
of
the
mirror
until
I
collapse
into
helpless
laughter.
I
dress
myself
in
red,
the
vivid
red
of
a
blood-pumping
heart.
I
grin
my
quickest
cat
grin,
contemplating
the
violent
symbolism
of
clothing
on
a
woman’s
body.
I
leave
my
hair
loose
and
tangled,
a
plum-colored
mess
that
defies
any
form
of
taming.
I
veil
myself
with
kohl
and
strawberry
lip-gloss.
I
walk
out
the
door
with
my
boots
tucked
under
my
arm.
I
have
no
particular
destination
for
now.
I
have
an
hour
to
burn
and
I
am
content
to
wander
downtown
and
peer
through
half-open
doors
of
cafes
and
clubs
looking
for
a
familiar
face
or
a
good
tune.
The
air
is
pregnant
with
the
humidity.
I
feel
the
sweat
drip
down
my
neck
and
back
with
the
negligible
effort
of
walking
uphill.
A
tiny
breeze
blows
up
from
the
river
but
it
is
small
comfort.
I
feel
like
I
am
drowning
in
the
heavy
September
air.
I
feel
like
I
am
drowning
in
a
dream
that
has
lasted
too
long.
He
and
I
rushed
down
this
same
street
soaked
through
with
rain.
It
was
March.
It
was
tornado
weather.
The
sky
was
stained
a
sick
yellow
cast.
The
world
was
a
massive
whirlwind.
Sane
people
were
tucked
into
basement
bedrooms
or
some
other
windowless
interior.
We
were
not
sane.
We
were
laughing
out
loud.
I
was
half
dancing,
swinging
my
hands
high
and
skipping
in
circles.
The
world
could
crack
in
half
and
disintegrate
around
us
for
all
we
cared.
We
were
alone
in
flooded
streets.
I
hiked
up
my
long
skirt
into
a
wet
wad
of
cloth
in
each
hand
and
ran
through
three
feet
of
rushing
gutter
water.
I
sit
down
at
a
table
near
the
door.
The
high
backed
chair
creaks
in
protest
as
I
twist
it
around
in
order
to
better
see
the
band.
I
order
a
double
Jack
neat
from
the
toffee-skinned
waitress
with
bleach
blond
hair
coiffed
into
a
perfect
upsweep
of
superglued
curls.
She’s
back
almost
immediately
with
my
drink.
She
sets
the
glass
on
the
table
and
I
take
a
slow
sip.
“You
waitin’
for
someone,
honey?”
Bubblegum
voice
with
an
accent
thick
as
the
river
bottom.
I
glance
up
at
her.
“No.
I’m
alone.”
She
looks
me
up
and
down
appraisingly.
“Awful
dressed
up
to
be
out
all
alone,
aint
ya?”
I
look
down
at
my
thin
red
dress
and
smooth
the
silky
fabric
with
one
hand.
“I
guess,”
I
shrug.
“Girl’s
gotta
get
out
once
in
a
while,”
I
take
another
sip
of
my
whiskey
and
let
my
eyes
wander
back
to
the
band.
They’re
playing
some
tripped
out
instrumental
version
of
Billie
Holiday’s
“Speak
Low.”
The
bass
sounds
water
warped
and
the
horns
are
singing
a
high
sad
moan.
I
smile
at
the
music,
loving
the
way
the
tones
combine
and
snake
through
my
body.
I
look
back
up
at
the
waitress
who
still
seems
to
be
waiting
for
me
to
say
something
more.
I
remain
studiously
silent
and
she
finally
sighs
and
leaves.
I
never
wanted
to
be
alone.
I
don’t
want
to
be
alone
now.
I
am
though,
and
it
occurs
to
me
now
as
it
has
a
thousand
times
before
that
perhaps
I’m
not
suited
for
anything
else.
Solace
for
a
few
hours
counts
for
so
little
these
days.
But
solace
is
what
keeps
me
alive
right
now,
so
I’ll
take
it. I
peer
at
my
reflection
in
the
rain-spattered
window.
Dark
eyes,
a
pale
face
mostly
obscured
by
tangled
hair.
Slumped
shoulders
and
a
single
finger
tapping
to
the
erratic
beat.
A
cigarette
burns
itself
down
to
ash
next
to
a
dozen
other
butts
in
the
small
glass
moon
of
the
ashtray.
What
is
this?
Tinkerbell
does
The
Lone
Ranger?
I
snicker
at
myself
and
tap
the
neglected
cigarette.
I
take
a
deep
drag
that
is
full
to
spilling
with
self-pity
and
self-deprecation.
Be
that
as
it
may,
it
is
still
true
I
wanted
him.
I
wanted
him
as
much
as
anything
I
have
ever
wanted
anything
my
life.
Sticky
sweet
in
the
summer
heat,
skin
slipping
against
skin.
His
hand
is
down
my
skirt.
His
other
hand
is
holding
my
hand.
Pressure,
release
and
spin
of
his
fingers.
I
laugh
and
moan
at
the
same
time.
I
want
him
to
save
me
from
myself.
Arching
my
back
against
the
hard
wall.
Sad
slow
jazz
with
a
country
twang
winds
its
way
into
my
ears.
His
eyes
are
dazed
and
heavy
as
they
watch
my
face.
His
lips
are
slightly
parted
in
concentration.
I
want
him
to
watch
me
this
way.
I
want
him
to
look
at
me
for
however
long
it
takes
to
see
something
beautiful
because
how
do
I
know
that
I
am
alive
if
no
one
is
touching
me.
My
eyes
lose
focus
as
I
push
against
the
delicate
dance
of
his
fingers
that
are
sending
me
slowly
skyward.
Lights
filter
blue
and
gold
as
I
suck
in
a
deep
trembling
breath.
I
think
for
a
moment
that
it
is
raining
again
but
when
I
look
up
there
is
only
the
bathroom
fan
spinning
up
the
smoke
that
wafts
on
long
tendrils
from
the
cigarette
still
burning
in
my
fingers.
Don’t
stop.
Don’t
stop.
I
bite
my
lips
hard
and
taste
strawberries
and
the
wet
brine
of
my
own
blood.
Oh,
my
boy…
I
trail
off
into
a
hiss
of
breath.
But
like
everything
I
have
desired
in
my
life
he
too
slipped
through
my
fingers.
He
slipped
back
into
the
life
he
needed
so
desperately.
He
needed
stability
in
the
form
of
life
insurance,
a
weekly
paycheck
and
a
proper
wife.
Never
mind
that
wildness
that
possessed
him
when
he
ran
recklessly
through
the
woods
after
me.
We
laughed
so
hard
that
we
both
fell
to
the
ground
in
a
muddy
heap.
He
pretended
to
stalk
me,
crawling
on
his
knees
toward
me,
growling
and
giggling
intermittently.
I
growled
back
and
climbed
the
nearest
tree
to
hang
upside
down
from
a
branch
just
out
of
his
reach.
Hanging
there,
the
wind
blowing
my
hair
across
my
face.
I
thought
we
were
wild
twins
and
that
we
would
always
be
called
back
to
these
woods
and
waterfalls
deep
in
the
heat
of
an
Indian
Summer.
I
thought
us
somehow
immortal.
I
believed
that
when
we
were
together
the
rest
of
the
world
became
only
so
much
dust
to
be
blown
away.
He
has
roots,
career
and
a
family.
There
is
nothing
a
man
like
that
wants
with
a
woman
like
me
besides
escapism,
a
fantasy
of
a
life
he
will
never
have
the
courage
to
live.
I
pass
through
his
life
like
a
whirlwind.
I
am
all
dervish
and
undertow.
Then there’s that other thing: the fingers that violate my sleep and send me screaming from my quiet, lightless house. My father’s touch that finds its way into every man’s fingers with an insistent and familiar pressure until I find myself running from anyone who has ever loved me. He says I’m a siren. I say I am just a little girl who is still running away from a place that was never home. |
I
peel
sweaty
hair
from
my
face
and
let
a
long
sigh
whisper
past
my
lips.
I
stop
to
light
a
cigarette
and
peer
in
at
the
tall
man
with
long
black
dreads
wailing
sporadic
manic
notes
on
a
beat-up
looking
sax
through
the
open
door
of
The
City.
I
feel
the
staccato
of
the
notes
echo
and
vibrate
through
my
body.
I
take
a
deep
drag
off
my
cigarette
and
slip
a
little
further
in
the
door.
The
club
is
smoky
and
mostly
empty.
A
few
old
guys
slouch
at
small
tables
over
their
drinks.
The
band
is
oblivious
to
the
dead
atmosphere
and
plays
a
noisy
Cajun
tune
with
religious
fervor.