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37 Jacqueline Wilcoxen Sleeping Too Close to the Border You'd think for fifty dollars you could sleep in the whitewashed ribs of a seaside motel. But on Saturday night, Highway 101 screams with Santa Fe and Amtrack, the breath of cars. Fleas pop against a tattered screen. Above you, the garble of Spaniards soaks the ceiling, someone brushes the breast of a banjo, a child's dirty face presses against your window. Suddenly, you're too close, the border only a mile away. Sharing your bed, your crumpled sheets, filthy legs of moonlight stretch, a snake of black hair hides under the pillow. AU day you've tried to dodge those who slowly count your change in sun cracked palms, dark faces spying under straw brims, long haired women with babies on their backs digging for your cola cans and spoiled meat, and the man who checked you in, his broken English and marble toothed smile that keeps barging in for towels and sheets. Lately, your own 38 the minnesota review face blooming in the mirror seems foreign and fraU, ravaged by time and loss, another summer gone. You feel it, the ground shifting, the invasion of ants, strange tongues slithering through the cracks. At dawn, it's impossible to pry yourself away from worn soles slapping the sidewalk, fishermen with white buckets and poles dragging you through rags of fog, to the edge of surf exploding below you, howling like wolves. ...

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