Friday, January 25, 2008

tucson post-

I understand the horizontal.
It doesn’t make me wistful
and humble the way cathedrals do
in cities that have cathedrals
and snow.

Of course I eye Kokopelli skeptically,
the way he dance on the sides
of coffee mugs and key chains.
But if you’re a tourist long enough
you are, if not absorbed, stained.

We washed our faces
and let the desert wind dry them.
We posed in front of mine shafts,
crunched fry bread, slipped white
fingers into silver rings. I envied
a young dancer’s leggings
like a soccer player’s shin guards.
To be special enough
for a uniform, mythic enough
for a costume. To escape

running shorts and T-shirts,
which is what the hawkers
of dream catchers
want, and the makers
of dream catchers.
Them too.

Is there something after
who brought what:
an Easter ritual
a Disney movie
a souvenir
a language
heroin, then crack
a winter home
a house without drawers
a book about you
written by me
a book by you
purchased by me
an artifact.

Can this be about audacity
on all sides? And breath?
And sticking it out
through the summers,
inhaling fire until it lives in you?