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SAHARA

 

 

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