There Was Once This Woman Who, at Dawn, Tres­passed Across the Sand


Room Magazine - - MCCULLOUGH -

She built a tower for her­self. What a waste of sand, they all thought, and to not lower her hair down—who waits, in a desert, to be over­come and by what? A flood of what to take her? She might have set­tled for the pi­cador, who had a nice trough outside his sta­ble, or the butcher, who could have stuffed her with his leftovers, no, she de­manded more like a fool whose eyes had been put out. So the men turned their mules away to­ward other tow­ers, to­ward other maid­ens who let down their trapped braids as ex­pected, leav­ing this other woman to grow old.

Even­tu­ally she lost her hair. Her tower col­lapsed. The end and yet it isn’t. Those who saw her rubble asked what have you lost? But look at what she has: the rubble, her loss.

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