The south-east patch of heart is rough, very calloused, almost scales.

She tried to pluck them off. They turned to dips, then pock-mark fields.

Now scrubs of inedible weeds are growing. The smallest hilltop peak

had broken off, but was at some point fixed with glue that’s held.

The desert dunes around the hills fold into themselves regularly,

then straighten out like bedsheets pulled by evening’s setting grip.

Looking west, a mountain-slip wing fans white-tipped beyond blue;

the other wing is resting limp, down under the storm cloud’s shutter,

they beat together when she wakes. Some paces forward a lake,

formed from sound that fell from sky. Oasis all surrounding it.

Down the steppe there’s a shelter, just lean some weight against the door—

it creaks. The chain link fence around the yard has recently married the vine

growing up and through, and thick-knee birds come out when winds are tender.

The plateau gives the best view, though the roads below are under repair.

The main headwaters start much further down, and make their way up North,

into a waterfall. Stay a few feet away from the sharp rocks under the flow.

Those falls become a river that moves through reeds and marsh, until it finds

the rhythm pulse of sea, a blue-green tint of gray, same as her eyes.  

Copyright © 2019 by Bree Devones Hsieh.