Dolores is in the moment.
Dolores is a woman left out-of-doors, while all the neighbors close their
curtains.
To them, Dolores is a plague creeping down their streets, palms pressed on one
door after the next.
Dolores is a piece of shit, they say. Everything Dolores touches turns stupid.
But Dolores is much more than that.
Dolores is a shadow and a skeleton and brain matter.
Dolores is good—in here.
Dolores buys fake fingernails for her sister at Christmas time. Dolores loves
her sister’s kids.
Dolores is a bruised eye and split lip.
Dolores wants a better life.
Dolores is kicked at a stoplight and is left for dead in a train yard.
Dolores did not ask for this.
Dolores did not ask for the pulled hair and daily beatings and hard sex.
Dolores equals Desperation. When she shoots, the bullet dives in.
Dolores is intuitive; she knew not to depend on her neighbors.
They would not save her.
Rather, Dolores thought, it is the land, the ground, that saves us.
And, so, the gun connects in Dolores’ hand.
*
Form inspired by Deb Olin Unferth’s short-short, “Deb Olin Unferth”
The character, “Dolores,” based on Edward Allen Baker’s short play, Dolores