Forty Days

Jane Pettibone | Poetry

Standing on edge
of a great fall,
a long corridor,
I see thorns in desert soil,

wonder about trekking
through cholla, ocotillo, saguaro,

fluid mirrors,

shifting shapes,
irascible dust storming
blue. First steps
are always risky,
a long way to the mountain

pointing skyward.
Dirt slithers—
sidewinder, scorpion, gila

flicking sand like water,
splaying dust like mist,
I am terrified.
A coyote howls,
some call it song,
to me—a haunting.
What is this burning in my flesh,

the slow desiccant in my throat?

My life has shriveled
like the arroyo.
Chill of naked dark
crackles my bones,
stars, sharp as shards
refract kingdoms far away,
a stone under the Palo Verde

glistens as oiled bread,
I ponder digging my own grave.

Easier now to lay me down,
lay me down,
lay me down.
A dove ladles out mourning,
I swallow the liquid dirge,
let it wallow the wasteland
of my tongue—
in choice wine.