Fargo Fandangle In Fargo, there are no leafy sea dragons floating in their seaweed homes, no seagulls circling the black steeple of the Pontoppidan Lutheran Church on 4th Street. When the clouds break, a shaft of sunlight drops like a ladder from some California in the sky where we could drive through hills the color of ripened soybeans and arrive at the vineyard gate, ready to sail away in long boats bearing an unmistakable resemblance to Viking ships, their sails as dark as wine.
In a Rented Car She drives, and I watch familiar fields go by, my foot rocking the cool cradle of my sandal. The car is white with a blue interior. How like a cloud it is, carrying us over hills, racing its shadow. The years between our then and now are thin as paper; we flip them back and forth like pages in a book. After a fifty miles, we begin to tell each other the parts of our lives we like best, we make pronouncements.
38 Summer 2018
