When I woke yesterday
I couldn’t put my finger
on the horizon,
mistook dust for fog,
didn’t know that soon the wind
would swirl my hair from its roots
and I could only find the horizon,
the flat calm loneliness of the southwest,
by lying down. Dust crept
under the bedroom door—
but later I sensed the graininess
under my skin, as I passed
my husband in the hallway.
As the sun set, I entered the garden
wanting to anchor my short fingernails
into the warm, brown soil—
instead, I was tossed against the rock wall
like debris, discarded from a moving car—
alone and forgotten.
LeeAnn Meadows lives on the outskirts of Las Cruces, NM with her husband in an old adobe motor court. She has published poems in Sin Fronteras, Lunarosity, Words on a Wire and Many Voices.