The Dust Comes Out Like Stars

(Scratching Out This New Arizona Life)

 

In the air,

the scent of mesquite trees

and fry bread.

 

By the side of the road,

a dark head bobbing

above a collection

of turquoise and silver rings.

 

On my skin,

a touch of needling sun

like fresh stitching on a wound

too long held open.

 

Jesus healed with spit and dust.

 

A vermilion flycatcher,

like blood confetti

dripping from branch,

to branch,

to branch—

 

let’s me get closer

each time he sees us,

 

my hands full of mud.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner