Title: The Paradise Sestina 
Author: Dust 
E-mail: okonak@city-net.com 
Rating: NR 
Category: S/D UT (Like everything I write.) 
Spoilers: Season 8 -- but in *my* world, FM never returns and there ain't 
no baby. 
Keywords: S/D 
Disclaimer: These characters do my bidding -- but they are not mine. They 
are the collective property of Chris Carter/1013 & Fox. 
Feedback: Please! 
Summary: The daily tension b/t two agents. 
Acknowledgements: For spookycc, who inspires the rest of us. She will 
always be The Doggship Writer. And, as always, for K8 & Mischa. 
 
The Paradise Sestina 
 
They pass a house that looks like its spine 
has spilled out or packed up and run. 
She is reminded of the trunk with their pot-bellied bags 
Packed to bursting with wrinkle-resistant things. 
She scans the heavy-lidded sky and wonders about the weight 
Of meaningless stuff that is heavy and sharp. 
 
The turn into the motel lot is just past the sign for Amish Soil. A 
90-degree right -- too sharp. 
When he forces the wheel she feels the pull in her spine 
And his elbow against her upper arm -- the shock of his weight. 
She kills the silent desire to run, 
And consoles herself with the kindness of his offer to carry her things. 
He looks unbalanced -- one side slung low with four pregnant bags. 
 
He leaves her at Room 12 with her bags. 
The wordless shadow he cuts is slender and sharp; 
She follows the bob of its course when he bow-legs away with his things. 
She opens the door to a carpet mapped with spills; the phone book has a 
broken spine. 
She trembles twice for a missing partner, then lets the bath run . . . 
He folds onto the bed in Room 14 and collapses his own unbearable weight. 
 
She is nervous as lightning, has lost weight. 
He watches her pick at the corners of the evidence bags 
And notices that her stockings have a run -- 
He tells her. The look that she gives him is sharp 
And patrician; it needles his spine. 
He will remember not to mention these things. 
 
The Paradise case is another puzzle of scientific noodling and grotesque 
things -- 
the autopsy rooms, the Stryker saws, the measurements. The weight 
of a stopped heart, the hyphenated spine. 
She dreams, unwittingly, of powder-fine ash, stainless steel, body bags. 
Behind his eyelids, he sees the scenery of vast farmlands and wooden fences 
grown sharp -- 
Like crooked teeth wired together but wanting to run. 
 
Maybe he needs exercise; he should hit the dust-ribbon roads for a run. 
He's been sweating at night, worrying about her, seeing things. 
Her cheekbones look too sharp 
For her face and he wishes she'd gain weight. 
Under her eyes, she's got those bruise-coloured bags . . . 
They've both known the bust of a bullet and the fireworks of a 
nearly-shattered spine. 
 
They leave Paradise PA for DC. DC for Moon OH. It's hard to run with the 
weight 
Of dead souls and swamp things. So they hide their histories like unwieldy bags 
With sharp corners -- tissue over spine. 
*