An exaggeration of memory:
trails once speckled
with obsidian pebbles, now dirt.
Hikers filled their pockets
with black glass tears,
nothing left, like wildflowers
driven to extinction
by nature lovers pressing petals
between dry pages. The cave,
pocket of shade on the sunny cliff face,
always wore the scars of graffiti—
lovers scratching names into sand—
but you had to leave the trail
to find the canyon of blue and white
shadows. Squeeze between the walls;
forget civilization. Nothing
is as it was. Word of mouth
birthed weekend crowds.
A place destroyed by those
who loved it. I share their fault.
Jennifer Lynn Krohn currently resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico with her husband. She earned her MFA at the University of New Mexico. Her poems have appeared in The Saranac Review, Adobe Walls, RED OCHRE LiT, Prick of Spindle and more.