By H.M. Christie
We hike out to the Anasazi trail
red rocks and red dust.
Your bandana, a snake
around my neck
with the memory
of your hands.
2,500 years before
the Basketmaker peoples
had described this.
-Us-
Chipping the desert varnish of stones
to make a tiny image
of us holding hands.
Fingers lacing together,
(like lovers)
my sleeping heart turns over.
I pull my hand away: place it on
the hot dry rock to steady me.
I calculate; assemble the discarded
stones of our
into a more pacified
platonic structure.
Quieted,
the petroglyphs all run
toward the edge of the rocks,
trying to remake our history.
Lightning and her lover
the snake
and run too
in the other direction.
We become disoriented
in the heat,
relying on:
Echoes of strangers voices;
Expired courtesy;
The confused body.
Choose:
1) Dehydration and sun spots; or
2) The damage of saying
the wrong words.
We are the rock’s image
unable to ask:
What is available?
How much does it cost?
H.M. Christie (she/her) is an American born poet, novelist and lawyer working for climate
justice in the developing world. Christie writes in French and English and her work has
appeared or is forthcoming in Barzakh Magazine, The Copper Nickel and others. Though a
majority of her time is spent in travel, she is based in Quintana Roo, Mexico.
Hot Pot Magazine 