Nearly everyone had left that bar in the middle of winter except the

    hardcore.  It was the coldest night of the year， every place shut down， but

    not us.  Of course we noticed when she came in.  We were Indian ruins.  She

    was the end of beauty.  No one knew her， the stranger whose tribe we

    recognized， her family related to deer， if that's who she was， a people

    accustomed to hearing songs in pine trees， and making them hearts.

    The woman inside the woman who was to dance naked in the bar of misfits

    blew deer magic.  Henry jack， who could not survive a sober day， thought she

    was Buffalo Calf Woman come back， passed out， his head by the toilet.  All

    night he dreamed a dream he could not say.  The next day he borrowed

    money， went home， and sent back the money I lent.  Now that's a miracle.

    Some people see vision in a burned tortilla， some in the face of a woman.

    This is the bar of broken survivors， the club of the shotgun， knife wound， of

    poison by culture.  We who were taught not to stare drank our beer.  The

    players gossiped down their cues.  Someone put a quarter in the jukebox to

    relive despair.  Richard's wife dove to kill her.  We had to keep her

    still， while Richard secretly bought the beauty a drink.

    How do I say it？  In this language there are no words for how the real world

    collapses.  I could say it in my own and the sacred mounds would come into

    focus， but I couldn't take it in this dingy envelope.  So I look at the stars in

    this strange city， frozen to the back of the sky， the only promises that ever

    make sense.

    My brother-in-law hung out with white people， went to law school with a

    perfect record， quit.  Says you can keep your laws， your words.  And

    practiced law on the street with his hands.  He jimmied to the proverbial

    dream girl， the face of the moon， while the players racked a new game.

    He bragged to us， he told her magic words and that when she broke，

    became human.

    But we all heard his voice crack：

    What's a girl like you doing in a place like this？

    That's what I'd like to know， what are we all doing in a place like this？

    You would know she could hear only what she wanted to； don't we all？  Left

    the drink of betrayal Richard bought her， at the bar.  What was she on？  We all

    wanted some.  Put a quarter in the juke.  We all take risks stepping into thin

    air.  Our ceremonies didn't predict this.  or we expected more.

    I had to tell you this， for the baby inside the girl sealed up with a lick of

    hope and swimming into the praise of nations.  This is not a rooming house， but

    a dream of winter falls and the deer who portrayed the relatives of

    strangers.  The way back is deer breath on icy windows.

    The next dance none of us predicted.  She borrowed a chair for the stairway

    to heaven and stood on a table of names.  And danced in the room of children

    without shoes.

    You picked a fine time to leave me， Lucille With four hungry children and a

    crop in the field.

    And then she took off her clothes.  She shook loose memory， waltzed with the

    empty lover we'd all become.

    She was the myth slipped down through dreamtime.  The promise of feast we

    all knew was coming.  The deer who crossed through knots of a curse to find

    us.  She was no slouch， and neither were we， watching.

    The music ended.  And so does the story.  I wasn't there.  But I imagined her

    like this， not a stained red dress with tape on her heels but the deer who

    entered our dream in white dawn， breathed mist into pine trees， her fawn a

    blessing of meat， the ancestors who never left.