Great heat bears down
on the Sonoran desert. Arizona:
Highway 10 flings itself
over wind-blown waves of sand
and valiant, scrubby weeds. Deep
inside my head, tiny crystals
adhere to the cilia, sucking me
into a vortex, pitching me flat
on the motel floor where I moor
staring where the ceiling meets itself.
Unanchored, dizzy, I slide my hand
along the plastered wall to walk.
Her voice across the continent:
``Mom, you’ve got rocks in your head.
That’s what I tell all my patients.’’
A gentle laugh. ``You’re OK.
It’s common. Do this: Hurl yourself
back-side-face down.
Dislodge them.’’ Morning: I’m better.
The only seat in the car I can bear:
the driver’s. My hat brim deep
down on my face squeezes my view
sideways. The horizon steadies.
Balance began to return with her voice.
Wondrous they are, these daughters.
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This is just so evocative, so lovely. I love so much about this prose poem - everything, really. One thing that stick with me is 'My hat brim deep
ReplyDeletedown on my face squeezes my view
sideways.' and 'Wondrous they are, these daughters.' Bravo!
Every time I read this,(and I keep reading it) I am struck by those "tiny crystals".I love both these voices: the mother telling us "great heat bears down" and the daughter "hurl yourself" And of course that last line: wonderous indeed!
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