My thighs ache;
I lift myself into your sand-scoured Jeep
rust less likely than simple abrasion;
The wind is dangerous here.
Hot breath of sorrow;
You are not here.
The metal door is hot against my hand
My heart is sinking.
Life is only life if you think it.
The bottle of water I bought
at a tarp-covered stand 20 kilometers ago
catches the light, the liquid
glittering clear like tears.
My arms ache. I hold on.
The road is rough, the wind
holds dark shards of sand and fear.
My memories are dark and thick;
they rearrange my body like a dune,
tears contained in thin plastic skin;
water is only water if you drink it.
You are gone.
The wind is dangerous here.
-- susan smith nash
march 16, 2002