Just before Indio
I was nine years old. Reaching it, was ten,
laces untied, stepping to hot asphalt. The night
green turquoise with motion sickness
glared through tinted Greyhound windows
all the way through day from California.
Another poem

a stiffness in my neck
made me feel cold, before I knew what old was.
But I crackled, static magic when I touched
the glass at the allnight drugstore,
sold postcards of Indio.
In the photographs the sky was turquoise.
Another poem

where a woman with a curved back,
wood soaked in sandstorms,
a woman by a low white house
shuffled the postcards and rattled gila monster
words. Sold me a pendant, quetzlcoatl dancing
all his body turquoise, eight finger rings on her hands,
tarnished silver when she opened, speaking
another poem.

Sarah Davies

If you've any comments about this poem, Sarah Davies would be pleased to hear from you.