They came with biblical regularity:
first the grasshoppers.
You can have fun
with two or three of them
but highways full mean
no recess.
When the sky cracked open
we would stand under the flood
and open our mouths, let
the water run down the backs
of our dresses, down our
legs into our socks until
the arroyos swelled
and our mother threatened bodily harm.
But when the Arizona desert
flexed and turned itself to air
its underside,
we two-legged interlopers
could only cringe in
our four-walled sieve.
We sealed the obvious:
Doors, windows but
the desert snaked through
every ungagged orifice.
Mailbox slot, chimneys, wall sockets, while we huddled together
ensorcelled by sand,
our mother outmoaning the storm
through a dampened washcloth,
"Goddamn this place, Goddamn this place!"
