Shaved clean in a transparent
white lace teddy and matching
fuck-me pumps, she steps out
from behind a boulder, smiling,
Ma Barker prominent in her jack-
Mormon lineage. She brings a
change of lingerie, assorted colors,
for each day of the trip. Third river
day she’s on the front tube buns to
sun inducing service, won’t rig or
cook or help. Fourth day conversation
stops. He doesn’t understand how his
patched raft floats such leaden silence.
They make the takeout. He drops her
off and drives back to the river,
fishes around his rig bag for the
Dr. Bronners, jumps in and scrubs.
Her nickname begins with “Afghani”,
ends in a rhyme, classic Modigliani
features on a Giacometti frame, she
smuggled hashish to Manhattan from
Kabul. I’m embarrassed to tell you
how much hash I can stuff up my
vagina, she ventures nonchalantly.
I order more drinks.