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When her eyes moved I saw the field too. We walked through the garden, over the cobble toward the woods. A mountain had risen where the hideout was. Branches lifted slowly, as if under water. The universe is breathing she said. I said yes. What is it saying she said. I said I don’t know. I was sure I’d locked the door. She passed through too. After the road split we were forced to stand in the rain and later we reached an open circle in a field. We walked inside my little hut. I saw how my skin had absorbed the dye off my clothes. I knew she was a witch. She sat cross-legged and took the tarot out from my vitrine, reaching in among the feathers and bones, a little bottle of water from the fountain of youth in Collioure, near the Spanish border. We shifted the cards in waves back and forth. She pulled The Hangman, I pulled Death. I turned on the TV but she wanted to go. I gave her a music box and I think she still has it.
Ben Fama is the author of Aquarius Rising (Ugly Duckling Presse) and New Waves (forthcoming this spring from Minutes Books). Visit him at www.new-waves.tumbler.com.