beneath mosquito netting
in a house in the forest of date palms and mango trees
the windows open to the air
When I drive alone from St. Paul to my native Lake of the Woods, I call my mother from Kelliher or Waskish. “O.K.,” I say, “I’m heading into The Bog.” Which means that if I haven’t arrived within two hours, she’ll call the sheriff and have him drive south from Baudette down Highway 72, just to make sure I haven’t been sucked up into the mysterious depths of The Bog…
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