25: Arkansas

She was one when diamonds began spilling from her pockets, glittering behind her like a comet’s tail, or a trail of fairy-tale breadcrumbs.

The crows would follow; swoop in to sweep them up before anyone found them out. That was 104 years ago.


“What do you want for breakfast, honey?” mother asked. It was morning.

The white plate was full and round and empty. “Honey,” he said. “Honey. Honey.” He pulled three diamonds from his pocket and arranged them on the countertop: yellow, yellow, brown.

“Oh baby,” her mother said. “Did you get out again?” She tossed the round rocks into the dirt, food for crows.

“Again,” N said, flapping his hands. “Again.” But mother lashed him to the seat of the black car, took him back the cold white place in Little Rock. There were no diamonds then.


For her it is always bedtime. “Good evening, Princess,” I say, bowing low, raven locks brushing against her white bedspread. “Come out to play?”

She giggles and flaps her arms. “Ne No NeNo No No Ne No,” she says.

Together we fly out the window, hand in hand, over shingle and tarpaper roofs, lakes, craters, mountains. Dull stars twinkle in loamy clouds; we cartwheel through them, our outstretched limbs stretching out longer than the horizon. Until the cawping crows come. Until we become a tangle of arms and legs, a tornado tumbling earthward.


Awoken, jumbled, sheet-wrapped, grass-stained. Mother was calling so slowly he rose and followed her floating words, walking through the doorway with diamonds pouring from his pockets, walking like someone in a dream.