8 Anna Mae, my mother’s college roommate and formerbest friend, who always wore a mountain ofspiraling orange hair tied above her head withsewing tape, gave me the nickname Dynamite, saidit was ‘cause my hair was a fireballlike hers. She called me Dynamite while shewas leaning over the table, her wrists onthe green felt, her breasts swaying beneath herlike two cue balls in a pouch. Shelet me play as many games as Iwanted for free and would even give mesome gin in a coffee mug if noone else was there on those afternoons Ipretended to have band practice and slipped upto her place instead, to listen to the jukebox and breathe in stale smoke and playpool with this goddess of the Palace Bar. conejo oh, youmy erratic little rabbithow do i describe you?it’s stabbing aberrant beautifulthe way you hopa tongueful of cloversweet smell in your furears that never quit Even The kitchen sink is full nowand a cluster of milk glasses standson the counter like a modern stonehenge.There is even a tupperware tubsoaking in the bathroom.Can you see herarm dangling over the side of the couchin burgundy flannel?And the dog is whapping histail against the washer to be let outside.And the mail man left a notein the overstuffed mailboxto pick up this month's magazines atthe post office.Are those her shoelacessnaking out from under the cushions?There is a brown spot growinglarger on the lone tomatoand on the radio someone is singing aboutlove. Dallas Fletcher is a San Francisco Bay Area transplant originally from the Midwest. He has an MFA in creative writing from Mills College in Oakland and writes fiction, poetry, and occasionally grocery lists. His superhero day job is teaching at a special needs preschool for students with emotional and behavioral challenges. He finds inspiration for writing by hiking through the redwoods with his partner Harold.