Dead Horse Canyon

Dead Horse Canyon

Molly Davidson

With regards to Emily Dickinson
           
In morning, we stay
on blue tarps before rolling
over on collected dew.
Sand, cuticles of dust, scatters,
 
            slipping under and between us.
            Everything is gold in the desert,
            in the morning, in elemental rust.
 
At the river, red and green
canoes beat beside each other
tenderly. Mother, at the end
of the sandbar, bathing, spills
 
            herself to morning silence. Father,
            in a frayed camp chair, pours strong
            coffee, awaits organized decay.
 
Sister sighs heavy, seeing
the closeness of their distance.
Conscious stillness shifts between
us, and nylon, and dew. Crumbling
 
            is not an instant’s act: when sun
            comes over the canyon, this will
            ruin. We will crumble the site
 
slowly, as we do in mornings. Break
down tents. Haul bags to the river.
Untie anchors. Consecutive and slow,
we will move down stream.
 
 
 
 

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