Featured Poet: August 1998

Desert Vision

You return to the desert to trace
the Anasazi dream—seeking
a fractal start—the geometric place
of your own emergence. Will I paint

myself with pinon and dance for you?
The full moon always makes me feel
this way, tide-tipped in liquid, but
we're far from any shore. You always

admired the cliff dwellers. Pull up
the ladder and make magic in my kiva
tonight. I'll knock the edges of my rhythm
sticks against the door if you can

open yourself to the visitor. Take
this sip of sweetwater—rain that fell
long ago from Changing Woman's eyes—
perhaps we'll share her vision for

White Shell Girl is near, can be
your healer, sift sand paintings
in corn and pollen. While I, I'll don
the shimmer and rattle of her dress,

fit the conch shell to my lips
to call the predevonian sea, chanting:
Let's ride this desert tide together.
Let's ride it like a song.

Desert Vision II

You come in from the desert
like so many men before you—
seekers of gods and visions—

your eyes seared and wide
your tongue thick and crusted
with stories to tell. You fall

at my feet, cling to the hem
of my skirt. Am I your mother
that you seek me out? Blood

of my blood it seems I have
made you as surely as if I
carried you nine months, your

weight a stone pulling me
closer to ground. As a maiden
I soared like that desert star,

positioning itself over our heads,
that desert star, which has seen all
you have seen and that seen

in the eons before you. These
rocks, this dust they are ages old
and wear the wanderings of so

many seekers well. Sing it out
now in folded rock and sunset
buffed hues. Take my hand.

Lead me towards the sand sculpted
oasis—your personal place of
emergence—sacred like a spring.

Desert Vision III

You take me to the desert,
strip me of my simple cotton
shift, use the sun to carve
an arc into my body.

"You look good in light,"
you say. "I like revealing
your hollows," I answer
"there may be manna there."

Now night has come but
we have not set. "Your light dances
under my horizon," you say,
as we orbit each other
like twin moons. "The pull of you
trembles in my blood like a wild
thing seeking prey," I answer.

Our hearts beat an ancient,
internal tattoo, your chest is wet.
Are those my tears or are they yours?

"I am not Diana," I whisper, as
I lay my quiver to rest.
"Nor I Thor ," you answer,
placing your hammer to the side.
Let us spark what we will
and wet this arid place
in a rush of sweet life released.

The night has passed, we
have become the dawn.

Desert Bloom

You weave remembrance:
sculpt words into air into form
breathing life there he stands

Are you a God
or some sorcerer
Jung's dream catcher
muttering a ya tah hey
ya tah hey
ya tah hey
to walk my desert dream?

There I stand a pillar of salt
trapped by looking back
looking back
looking back
My home is burning
where is my husband
that long tall drink of water?

The sand is burning
burning
under my feet
the sand is shifting
shifting
I'm up to my neck
honey sweet
The green ants think I am their dream
their feast.

A wise man arrives
paints me in colors
all colors
I fall to crystals
and he sifts me through
his calloused hands—
adds a tear:
his, God’s, yours?

Is this our Eden, then
or somewhere new
where I need no apple, crave no fig
leaf to cover me
nor shirk the serpent sucking at my breast.

The wise man licks my salt
until tall and green
I am fresh woman seed
and I am bursting
bursting
bursting
with a need
to grow