MAUREEN SEATON
Abiquiú
I was watching Jupiter’s moons through a telescope, 7000 feet in the air, sea level
a sweet tail of memory, and Jupiter was giving the impression of
being in one constellation when it was really in another. All week I’d sprawled on
my back on the bench so looking up wouldn’t hurt my neck,
and I kept waiting for the end of the world as we know it. It came the last night,
the night I bargained my soul for, the extra, unexpected one. The
footsteps came without surprise and there were so many people angry at me for
taking this chance on the mountain at night alone: Didn’t you know
you’d be scared, they said, and tsk tsk: stern mothers. My heart quickened, like in
vampire stories, and quickening, as we know, always leads to
death. Back in the city, there were gunshots in my old neighborhood,
bouncing off buildings, confounding police. Conversely, I’d heard nothing
