Every forlorn family circus this high in el cerro knows the secret of a slanted, odd shaped lot in Pueblo Nuevo. How to set the tent, the stands, so the unevenness of el terreno is not noticeable. The unfed mare, too, has un secreto.
Here is one place in Pueblo Nuevo there is no door to chase her from, where the hard scrabble belongs to none, where she can scavenge between empty postholes and the ditching that circles the tent that was there not that long ago. Tonight her knowledge is useless.
Other stakes have been driven, another tent pitched. Tonight the mare must also wander. Each divided from each by a year and a half, an indistinct face of a distinct father, not one of which any one of them would know if it were suddenly bent to hers…and slowly turned away. Sisters who share a mother. A mother who does, in her way, provide. A mother who reads without effort.
The second: shapeless as flowers, a month between seasons; business head, willing to negotiate. The third: bony, straight haired, determined; if there were Apache blood in Pueblo Nuevo, she would have her drop. Each of three divided from two by a year at la preparatoria. Three who, nevertheless, have been known to speak smoothly, at once and, sometimes, all together.
Seasonless summer, shimmering fall. Day white as egrets, as herons; sharp enough to carve the eye. Sun still stark, if angling. Not quite horizontal. Sisters flanking each other. One cobblestoned direction, another, at the end of which lies…. After which sisters shall offer their offering: a day out for the birthday girl who, like the sisters, must have heard the sound truck sound.
