he pulled the blue ford business man's
coupe over to the side, a gravelled stretch,
and out we climbed, onto the hoover
dam. the concrete shell blocked the black
rock gorge, and behind it all the blue
water in the world waited, angry at being
so pent up. we walked the dog, ate mustard
and ham sandwiches on white, glugged down
ice cold water from the thermos, carefully doled
out by my mother. i wondered away, to look over
the edge. at the bottom, billions of
gallons of water crashed and exploded in a
white hell, sending a rainbow across the gorge.
looking down, i felt myself falling over the side,
being crushed by the tons of icy blue. in a
rapture of vertigo,
i tore myself away and turned, saw my brother
and sister running in circles, my mother stowing and
packing in the car. my father leaned against the car,
the dog sitting leashed and patient, her tongue
flagging the dry desert air. my father munched his
sandwich, absently, eyes up into the sky, not
here, not here at the hoover dam.
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