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