The Moya View

A Desert Story

Image credit: Matthew Thorne.

The desert scorched their lips,
broke the heart of their embrace-
a pink blister on their foreheads
the sun’s reminder on how impossible
it will be to hold on to these knowings.

He will be left standing alone
in the swirl of shadows and dust,
abandoned by the mountains,
living only in the patina of
dwellings turning to relics.

She will drag the dead deer they hit
off the hood of the red mustang, leaving
it to wither just beyond the white lines.
The blood will stay. So will the dent. In years,
the cracked windshield will be a spiderweb.

One day, when this piece of metal overheats,
she will rest her feet out the window,
and realize that it’s time to raise the hood,
and walk away into the dessert, just
vanish into the old dust and shadows.

Her grandfather seeing her vacant
armless chair empty by the fireplace
will teach her son how to handle a rifle.
The boy will close his eyes, pull the trigger.
The deer, he shot, will be left alone in the dust.





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