The call of the wilds
she romanticizes in the city
wondering why desert breezes
are plenty resilient to
caress soft and quiet in her mind
amid the din of unfettered capitalism
not leaving until the machine’s
endlessly uncoiling quill
stabs holes in her increasingly bloodless heart
and she figures icy-hot stings of scorpions
deep into the pink pads of her feet
would be better than this
finally coming to him
in the high plateau
they walk onto prehistoric sands
along with their ancient scars
carried like secret rocks
she and he
bathed in solitude and togetherness
waiting on whatever they are
to flood the dry arroyo
snaking toward and away
way out here
the threat of the scorpion’s tail
sanguinity for their souls
on the tip of its needle
raised to strike at any moment
protects more than inflicts wounds
upon wordless lovers.
Published by – Tiger’s Eye Journal