(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