Manifest At five in the morning on the first night of sleeplessness I imagine us on a wagon train headed toward the hazy west of daybreak. I am wearing a calico dress and high mudcaked boots and everything is idyllic manifest destiny, hardscrabble honest faith, until we see the mountains. There are so many of them, wolves' teeth in the animal carcass of unconquered America. We are too heavy for the steepness of this country's brutality. Weight must be lost, furniture left rut-side to rot into prairie grass. The unessential jettisoned to ensure safe passage. As I watch your arch of canvas disappear into an uncertain morningâ€™s jaws from my perch on the wardrobe, I can't help but wave. â€” Cassandra de Alba
Carnival's 3rd volume of poertry, fiction, and artwork.