In the Hammond file I find a black & white photo.
I imagine her lips the color of chokecherries
pressed through a sieve. Her brow, arched in defiance.

A kiss for her horse and the miles ridden nude.
She's Independent, She's the town Crazy.

On the fourth of July down Stampede Avenue Alice rides her horse fat-fresh with hay. Vapors finger this stance womanhorse.

Is she real?

Determined, I step out but the crowd gathers me like Alice's unfolding skirt.

She stands in the middle of the road to hijack a car;
her horse is fed but her nightgown skirts manure.


I pick her up and slowly roll down the window.
I picture me, 80, shopping at Stecks, my nightgown 
dirt-blue in the dead of winter.