My son flew out west yesterday,
into sunset’s bloodshot eye, back
to the desert where dust hides
its venoms and salves. Life holds itself
in dry stumps, and at night: that bowl of sky,
punctured by stars. He loves
the creosote smell after rain, the saguaro
that blooms after dark. Scorpion
shoe, hidden wound—he is half javelina,
a tough-hided creature patrolling
the canyon with his wide-shouldered
squadron, hiding the most tender
parts of himself: just what we meant
not to teach him. Here in his boyhood
home, rain smears the skylight, too warm
to freeze. Attic dripping with absence,
a room thick with loss and relief.
We sent him away to keep him alive
and so far, it has. Face-down in his pillow,
I pretend to breathe in his mountains, his sky,
the smell of wet dog in his bed. We know
we walk backwards by water, blind-
folded, unclenching, unpeeling ourselves
off of him: only child, phantom limb.
