In the Desert

Following tracks of the kangaroo rat, past
Prickly Pear and brittlebush. Salt flats spanning
dunes eroding and rebuilding—days
in the desert shift. Sand carpeting on wind
lifts up and up to sky; stars tear free
in the middle of the night and mineral
deposits line our dawn. Collect them with me,
will you? We have had such little rain.
I want to fill my hands with things that shine.

In the desert, it is possible to measure
years in heat. Sift and comb, we draw
from age its flesh, its flame. Younger
than weather, older than seasons
we have been here all this time. Circling
the sand. I knew you when I saw you
didn’t have a missing half: you had come
alone, and willing; wordless, now,
walking; footprints tend to weave.

A pull between us—a sunbeam,
bent—steady as something true. Above
the sand, above the wind, above
the heat I’ll meet you: I’ll meet you
in the middle. Raising limbs, our
fingertips up and grazing an edge
of cloud; in the moons of our nails,
rain pools; we ease it down. Over
the bridge, we pour it out, relieving

the earth from thirst. Like breathing
feeding a heartbeat. Like lending
life with touch.

.

This is How It Starts

Church bells, car alarms, crunching
over hard slush salting brick-lined sidewalk
and this is how it starts: delirium
and drag, brunch hour yet longing
for sleep. Hair matted, tangled
tucked around the neck, a stolen
rope of Hard Red Winter. Skin newly
dry, released to light from weight
of down and sheet. Dim to the day,
eyes called upon as touch moans,
sighs. Retires. This is how it starts:
a few dead flowers, the phone a hall
to the room of your voice. The wanting
to be held, the holding, the withholding
the with you and without you charting
time. Like fishing, like waiting
like the lure, like the bite, like the line
the line tugging, and the flailing, the
resistance, like rising, now, yes
surfacing, yes, landing, yes, arriving
yes now this is how it starts: home’s
doorway a reversion to dawn. Key
releasing, entry—each stair ascended
a sigh. Blood a peaked drip and
what’s left, fever hot; above the heart
blotches of blanch and flush; the day
uncurls like a sunbeam, burning and
this is how it starts.

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