Pauline Mornet

Thanksgiving Dinner

we went back to the desert
in the house of ruspoli
and at Thanksgiving dinner, a guy who shared my name offered us a ride
in a sand dune vehicle
like a quad but vicious
and we accepted (fools)
he drove like a madman through joshua trees
the spotlight of the car creating tall shadows, arms stretched out
and dust picking up into my hair
I felt like a child in a roller coaster
the smell of Mexico in the clearing
and he took a bad turn and the vehicle tipped
and we were sideways in the dark
crawled out of the womb
I rolled a cigarette, the car sideways
twinkling lights of yucca valley below us
couldn’t stop laughing at our (mis)adventures
nothing broken, some bruises
I pulled my shoulder but barely felt it (adrenaline)
and I asked him to check if the engine still ran
his beer had poured onto the sand
it’s carcass abandoned
gun shells at our feet
and I said to slow down on the way back
and he said “hell no”
and on the next turn we held our breath
I felt the world expand and fall back down, desacralized
we didn’t tip a second time
 
he drove us back to the house and I felt relief
but then he drove past the fairy lights of the boat shoveled in the sand
past our destination onto the next dust path
I felt a sense of abduction
the four of us in the sand quad
getting abducted by a stranger
 
(I had previously said that I wished to meet a Trump supporter since the election. how we lived in total parallel worlds, how I wanted to encounter America)
 
he took us into his house for wine and ice
a dirt mansion, like the ones in films where the cowboys enchant the East Coasters
or where the decanter is made of crystals
and the ceilings were low, statues of cockrels on the wooden pews
and sat us down at his wooden table
and began to declaim:
 
that he was not racist
that he was a ‘people-ist’  
that he had black and Jewish and gay friends
 
I felt the air go heavy
I felt myself dissociate
a sly smile around our mouths
here we go
 
I told him frankly that Trump was an idiot and did not evoke any poetry in me
he told me that to have freedom is to have agency as an economic agent
I advocated for universal Healthcare
he told me that he was healthy
I asked him about the young and the elderly
I felt no solidarity in his gaze
he told me he liked audio books and as he scrolled through his collection, I noted a title:
‘Why Women Have Sex with Men’
he was a good looking guy, long nose and Italian features. a Florida man.
I raised up the topic of abortion
he said women should be able to abort
but such rights have no place being enforced by the government
 
he kept moving to my leg
told me despite my leftism, that I was still cute and (probably) smart
he looked at my friends when he was talking
turned to me when I objected
told me he had a gun
told me women like rich men (I cackled)
then, he went upstairs
my friend texts me that he may be getting his gun
he comes back draped in a Trump 2024 flag around his shoulders, a cowboy hat and a capsule of cocaine
 
he says that homosexuals are indoctrinating our children
I tell him that I am a queer degenerate
he seems turned on by this
he keeps touching me
asks me about the size of my ex’s dick
I tell him as big as a handle bar
 
he says women are happier in UAE
where the men are dominant and will protect them
I tell him that we need to go
its getting late and the adrenaline is wearing off
 
he, alone in his house
a house for abundance wherein he is alone
with his debt and cars and Joe Rogan podcasts
 
i think about what sleeping with a guy like that would be like
imagine my body turning into stew
that gets thinly slathered on the table
 
I fall asleep to a surrealist nightmare