“The Lady in the Pink Mustang” by Louise Erdrich, 1984
The sun goes down for hours, taking more of her along
than the night leaves her with.
A body moving in the dust
must shed its heavy parts in order to go on.
Perhaps you have heard of her, the Lady in the Pink Mustang,
whose bare lap is floodlit from under the dash,
who cruises beneath the high snouts of semis, reading
the blink of their lights. Yes. Move over. Now.
or How Much. Her price shrinks into the dark.
She can’t keep much trash in a Mustang,
and that’s what she likes. Travel light. Don’t keep
what does not have immediate uses. The road thinks ahead.
It thinks for her, a streamer from Bismarck to Fargo
bending through Minnesota to accommodate the land.
She won’t carry things she won’t use anymore.
Just a suit, sets of underwear, what you would expect
in a Pink Mustang. Things she could leave anywhere.
There is a point in the distance where the road meets itself,
where coming and going must kiss into one.
She is always at that place, seen from behind,
motionless, torn forward, living in a zone
all her own. It is like she has burned right through time,
the brand, the mark, owning the woman who bears it.
She owns them, not one will admit what they cannot
come close to must own them. She takes them along,
traveling light. It is what she must face every time
she is touched. The body disposable as cups.
To live, instead of turn, on a dime.
One light point that is so down in value.
Painting her nipples silver for a show, she is thinking,
You out there. What do you know.
Come out of the dark where you’re safe. Kissing these
bits of change, stamped out, ground to a luster,
is to kiss yourself away piece by piece
until we’re even. Until the last
coin is rubbed for luck and spent.
I don’t sell for nothing less.
The sun goes down for hours, taking more of her along
than the night leaves her with.
A body moving in the dust
must shed its heavy parts in order to go on.
Perhaps you have heard of her, the Lady in the Pink Mustang,
whose bare lap is floodlit from under the dash,
who cruises beneath the high snouts of semis, reading
the blink of their lights. Yes. Move over. Now.
or How Much. Her price shrinks into the dark.
She can’t keep much trash in a Mustang,
and that’s what she likes. Travel light. Don’t keep
what does not have immediate uses. The road thinks ahead.
It thinks for her, a streamer from Bismarck to Fargo
bending through Minnesota to accommodate the land.
She won’t carry things she won’t use anymore.
Just a suit, sets of underwear, what you would expect
in a Pink Mustang. Things she could leave anywhere.
There is a point in the distance where the road meets itself,
where coming and going must kiss into one.
She is always at that place, seen from behind,
motionless, torn forward, living in a zone
all her own. It is like she has burned right through time,
the brand, the mark, owning the woman who bears it.
She owns them, not one will admit what they cannot
come close to must own them. She takes them along,
traveling light. It is what she must face every time
she is touched. The body disposable as cups.
To live, instead of turn, on a dime.
One light point that is so down in value.
Painting her nipples silver for a show, she is thinking,
You out there. What do you know.
Come out of the dark where you’re safe. Kissing these
bits of change, stamped out, ground to a luster,
is to kiss yourself away piece by piece
until we’re even. Until the last
coin is rubbed for luck and spent.
I don’t sell for nothing less.