In My Desert

We wash our feet in dust & hear our long-
dead hounds bay underground. We’ve always lived
this way. Our hair frays like sagebrush. When
the sky purples with storm, our hearts beat
a little faster. Wind rings the bells. The river
is lost. Spring up O well. Slow and steady
splits the canyon. No more altar calls, please.
Every barn’s a wedding, every red-throated
bird a prophecy. Less thunder in the
mouth means we shouldn’t sing. Aspens quake
their silver fans, our mothers twist their wedding rings.
The pastor asks us to stand. The corona
swings. A chapel is a dry creek bed &
baptism means drowning secondhand.
IN MY DESERT by Natalie Homer

Photo used under CC.

About Author


Natalie Homer is the author of the chapbook Attic of the Skull (dancing girl press, 2018). Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in The Cincinnati Review, Meridian, The Journal, Cosmonauts Avenue, The Pinch, the minnesota review, Blue Earth Review, Ruminate, Salamander, The Lascaux Review, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and others. She earned an MFA from West Virginia University and lives in southwestern Pennsylvania.

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