Marfa Roller Derby

She has stars on her head and the Marfa night

sky hasn't fallen (though its heft's a constant,

beautiful threat). She's a jammer and that's not

because jalapenos are thickening in jars for the farmer's

market (though they are). She's lacing her boots, not because she's

traded her ropers for the city—these have wheels and she's

rolling. The women in Marfa are strong and it's not

because their hearts have grown resilient from multiple

shatterings (though they have). She fights, plucking her past from its hiding

places (the crashes, actual and symbolic), fastening it in her fist,

and fashioning it forward, waiting for the whistle

(not the train's) to blow so she can finally

fly with her pack on the track into play.