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I journey across the Valley of the Moon—
a vast terrain more the surface of a distant
planet than anything on earth.

Memories trickle from the Big Dipper—
kisses in the shower, dances in the kitchen.
Inside a dream in this desert,
you over me, your hand on the small
of my back, I feel your tongue
tease, fold me into you.  Even
dead, you aren’t done with me.

Come morning, I stand in the valley
cut into sandstone and granite filled
with orange sand, stare at the Seven Pillars
of Wisdom, remember how Laurence of Arabia
said,  All of us dream: but not equally.

 


Pat has moved thirty-one times in forty-one years: Even her closest friends asked if she was in the Witness Protection Program. She refused to comment, except to say she’s in Portland, Oregon, for now. She arrived one week before the storm of the century and thought, Shooties, a person could write in this climate.

© 2011, Pat Philips West

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