poem
Volume 35, Number 4

Desert Hike

Somebody knows where we’re going,
though it’s never me, each direction
a sameness, each step a subtraction
of self, around us stone and silence
and sprawls of creosote bush, prickly pear
pale with thirst, lone saguaro a finger
lifted at us sweaty beasts, at the blue
unbroken above. It’s always like this,
a movement towards, the blind faith
that it will be beautiful. More steps,
on gravel now, ancient runoff, crunching
sound like nuts chewed slow, a steep dip
then a final rise. In the air’s glass
frame the desert quilt, dust on our shoes,
on our tired thighs and faces reflects
the last light of day, rust and pink rose,
an amber filled with arrived, with now,
the journey to and from. Remember this.


—Bern Mulvey