A quiet night at your desk—
an owl hoots; coyotes yelp.
You look up.
The brows on your mother’s portrait wrinkle
as if in deep thought;
she rolls her eyes, disapproving
of whatever it is you are doing.
She never liked her portrait,
though it’s one of your best portrait photos.
You blink. Rub your eyes.
Again you blink.
Horses in the pen and ink drawings
gallop across the paper and out of the frame.
Dust falls to the floor.
A rider in another drawing turns
his head toward you, and another man sitting
on his horse leans forward
to whisper a secret. He motions
for you to come closer.
Your voice fills with rocks
but you can’t cough them out.
A dog sits beside you, panting, dripping saliva;
cats and lizards lie on your shoulders,
unaware of the other’s presence.
An old-time phone you don’t have grinds out
its terrible racket.
There is a thrice hard-knuckled rap
at the front door.
Your name is called, startling,
like a spaniel’s sharpened bark.
You step outside.
A lightning strike, the crash and roll of thunder,
and a Sonoran cloud burst fills the air
with chilly, drenching relief.
It’s 2:00 AM.
The rain subsides,
your guests have departed,
and you to the warmth of your bed,
slipping into the comfort
of a rainy haze.
From: Getting There
Unpub. MS p. 22
Desert rain is always absolution.
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