Jeanie Tomasko

J e a n i e  T o m a s k o

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Georgia O’Keeffe’s Skull

The woman at the café in Santa Fe told us it was Honesty Day, and for the rest of the afternoon I believed everything: the street vendors’ prices, the church bell’s clang, the story of the hotel’s white-gowned ghost. I swore by every crow I saw that everything was true, that every narrow two-way street was wide enough. I believed what everyone believes about hot red chili peppers. I bought rosaries made from seeds and bone and started to believe in prayer. And later, when we found the skull on the picnic table way up on that mountain, the one with the large red flowers bursting from the eyeholes, I believed you.