Sheila Squillante forward and lets itself go with a lateral blast. Baby doesn’t yet know the word orgasm, still she’s bound to it, above it, inside, rides the landslide down, through trees and trailer parks, flattening cars and cattle and odd, obstinate men raving in flimsy cabins, deep in the danger zone. Over her head and behind her, the ash column rises, forms a cloud neither soft nor melting. Baby looks back at the machine of it, thrusting out and up, a monstrous velocity that outruns out the sun.
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Crab Orchard Review