In my front yard the ocotillo blooms
unconcerned with the sick and dying,
while somewhere deep in the Arizona desert
coyotes howl their despair at the moon.
Suddenly there’s a family of javelinas outside my door,
munching on agave, mesquite beans, and prickly pear.
I begin to contemplate the nature of loss.
Is there an accounting
for what blooms, then dies, leaving
what? a hole in the world? to be filled
with a holy nothingness? echoes of the divine
running through all that once was?
I once knew all the plants’ names and uses:
Flaming Sword, Coachwhip, Jacob’s Staff—
bright flowers the ancients used
to cover the freshest wounds.
I tied a red ribbon to the screen door
hoping the Angel of Death will forget about us.
I don’t know what else to do to keep you safe.
–
Lois Roma-Deeley grew up on Long Island, New York, however, she’s lived in Arizona for a few decades and still retains her NY accent which comes in handy as people think she’s tough. Her most recent full-length poetry collection is Like Water in the Palm of My Hand. Roma-Deeley has been published in numerous poetry journals and anthologies, is currently associate poetry editor of Presence and serves as Poet Laureate of Scottsdale, Arizona.
© 2023, Lois Roma-Deeley
Halfway Down the Stairs 