She follows them in a black chariot
reining in the sounds
the strum of their trend

They are the Dead
she is just coming to life

She slept in her car in Chicago
the windows rolled tight
against grinning intruders

She does not have the key
to keep herself safe
but she will not
give herself to them

So she wraps herself in down
waking often
to scan the parking lot
munching on a potato chip
sucking the salt
feeling the edges soften

The postcards she sends to her parents
are filled with what light she can spare
from her diminishing eyes


She follows the Dead
looking for the creamy answers
to a life she has yet to live

The motel in Haight Ashbury
was a barracks for army ants
and other followers

She watches them
licking powder from their lips
measuring the glaze of their eyes
against her clear, sinking heart

Twelve cities in three months
her legs ache in permanent folds
from unnatural sitting
a neck bent upright against a pillow
erasing that memory
of a single bed in her room at home
The posters on the wall of amplified angels
who cannot protect her here

And she waits for the man
who will eventually wrestle himself
between her legs
finish the search for new life
within this one barely started

There was one man in a cafe
whose eye lit upon seeing her
and while he was older than her father
his hands were her age

and while he didn't reach for her
the growing woman in her knew he loved her
enough to say
“Go home.”

So she did,
rejoining the flood of her own age
school, familiar streets
her father's face
her mother's kiss

and she knows this is a time of waiting
for the boy to grow into such a man
who will love her
join her travels

as they follow the Living
in a new chariot
powered by light

and warmed by a down
they safely share
together
in the adult night