He’s walking, a plaid flannel and blue jeans
and – Oh my Lord – we’re in the middle of nowhere,
close to Phoenix, AZ: home of the desert,
the nation’s cactus, and sequoia trees
that shed light on the rivers or lakes preserving
a resource of nature. I breathe the fresh air.
You send a couple to travel with each other
for days, carrying bags and books and too
much luggage filled with clothes and ivory soap,
their different selves begin to intertwine
a peak or the end of a good relationship –
and essentially the death: we’re both mad.
Who made you the best? I say. He says,
talking may turn around to fire at you,
and then he throws a hard, white pillow at me –
to hit my body. He won’t care for months
after he hurts me, yet in every single case,
it pierces my heavy heart, a thunderbolt
before it drops to my feet on the beige carpet,
that forces our lives to diverge in separate ways.