William Brymer

Two of us traveling the rutted roads
west of Bisbee in the rusted IH Scout,
windows down, desert air blowing through.
We pull over every so often
to pick wild sage growing out of grit,
holy smoke to scare away spirits
needling the soles of your wandering feet —
I have hold of you by a thread.
The sun sets. We make love beneath omen,
in a garden of cholla and prickly pear.
Back in Tucson, we burn the sage
light votives at altars to separate gods,
cataract windows, smudge our eyes,
but in the end you escape my gravity
and I only now come circling back.

 

 

Author Bio

Bill Brymer is a writer and photographer in Louisville, Kentucky.