In Arizona

 

I was drinking at Billy’s

Outside of Cotaro

Where the floors are packed sand

And the beers still come with salt

 

She rode in from the reservation

On a Mexican bike; Reading my palm

She charted constellations

In the bones of my hand

 

That night

Riding in the desert

We played chicken on the interstate

With a hand in my pocket

She said the Great Spirit moved within me

 

 

Later

We made love on warm stones And she tongue tasted skin

Hissing ancient words

As she came

 

I slept belly up

Dreaming

Of hot asphalt

Black eyes and beaded skin

 

I woke late

Alone

And already peeling

From the sun

 

Steven Vest lives and works in Alma Michigan with two children, one enormous dog and a very understanding wife. He wears many hats including librarian and professor and spends far too much time wishing he could see the ocean from his window.

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