MiPo Poetry Board Best of 2002

Mojave

You can’t cowboy out here;
can’t rent a horse or slip cash
for rattlesnake boots. Before
all of that, before pistols
and Calico Ghost Towns,

two women stood—naked,
browned, smelling of dry
earth: soupy sage. Their words
fell east with the antelopes,
fell thin after the railway.

If it’s desert you’re after,
walk out past the power lines
where yapping comes from
everywhere and jackrabbits
sit stiff (ears turned south).

Bury your hands in stickered
dirt and suck water from tight
roots. Smile as Sol calls twice,
once to his gentle cousin,
once to his son, Mojave.

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featuring the art of Georgia O'Keeffe