Six Sonnets: Crossing the West

1 Desert heat, high clouds, and sky the color of lapis. On this journey, anything seems possible, so we stop by an ancient cottonwood to kiss. The beauty trembles, doesn't say a word, just watches me, so open. Small birds fly by, flock in the shady tree above us. What settles in her heart? What congeals? Hope? Despair? Far off, the river churns in its sandy banks, swallows veer, turn in fiery air. Will these kisses seal her to me? I her lover, she my wife? Is all of this a dream, my whole life? 2 She is just this side of wonderful, and suddenly the glamorous world fills itself with shining and we laugh at highway monuments that explain how hard the trek had been for Franciscans in the Indian wilderness, poor fellows— conversion is the devil's own work! Then the stones of her dream turn up under her feet, the back of a huge land turtle. I know we must be circling Paradise because the ants enter the fleshy petals of the roadside flowers with evident joy and purpose (oh, my dark, pretty one). 3 Music, my adored. When is there never music? My accordion puffs up with drinkable melodies. I spill her tunes into your listening ear, one after the other: the squeeze-box enters the dance of the plaintive gypsy with its hard rhythms, lilts the back- breaking labor song the worker croons to earth, warbles romantic notes of dissolving borders. You melt like a woman beneath her lover's touch. Music is happy and pitiless when it sets fire to combustible souls. Even the raspy bandoneon's voice is lyric. 4 Sacred. Sacred. Sacred. Sacred. (Speak in a whisper.) We slip into this space half cognizant. The land is very large indeed: bones of the earth worn down, though she is a living thing. See how she exposes her grace? Antelopes graze on the far plain—their high, white tails—the red soil throbs its slow heartbeat, and the blue sky clears so smartly, perfectly, like radiance. Are the ancestors near? What can we know? We decide to wander around this prairie, mistaken for Utes, buy commodities in little towns. 5 Late afternoon we head west along the willow-banked Malheur after the long curve of the Snake River plain. (Above the falls where the Shoshone went to pray we soaked our feet in cold water, and I observed the arch of her brown foot.) Rabbitbrush and sage along the highway, juniper on far hills and bluffs. Sundown, and dusk falls over the wide basin of land. In Burns we eat eggs in a cafe, take a room in the Motel 6. In the dark, I can see her black hair, black against the pillows. Its clean scent makes me think of corn. At dawn, I hold her and there are kisses. Then more kisses. Then more. The day is cold; a north wind blew last night. But the land is open. Rain falls in showers of light. 6 Her hand on my thigh, my shoulder, in my hair. She leans over to kiss my cheek. We look at each other, smile. For miles we travel this way, nearly silent, point with eyes or chins at the circling hawk, the king- fisher on the snag above the swollen creek. One night I weep in her arms as she cries, "Oh, oh, oh!" because I have touched her scars lightly: throat, belly, breasts. In that communion of lovers, thick sobs break from me as I think of my love back home, all that I have done and cannot say. This is the first time I have left her so completely, so alone.