We crossed the border in
a rusted Falcon, on a wheel
that was starting to go flat.
A fountain of dust spouted
behind us, tinting the sky
terra-cotta where the sun shone,
Powdering our car, skin, food
with an ancient, ubiquitous grit,
metallic on our tongues, like blood.
Whenever we passed another
car, truck, any sign of civilization,
she ducked and covered herself.
Before the stark mountains, a plain,
monotony interrupted here and there
by run-down, sun-broken signs.
We drove through darkness, wide
open to the desert air, vibrating
under a million spinning galaxies.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
Photo: Rennett Stowe
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