| Willows My mother and I spent our time traveling, nomads in a rusty sedan. After all leads and friendships had drawn away we rolled east across miles of vacant, salted desert. Reno's night lights shot up like rotten teeth, splintered and aching in dead desert gums. I was eight years old. Here I unraveled weeping willows. Their feminine tendrils sagged and cradled my small body. I swung on the hairy vines leaving sticky, green burns in my palms. My grandfather had planted the svelte bodies in the '30s. His shoulders pushed them deep, driven by probabilities. Driving Home From Your House Tonight I realized one difference between me and most people: I hear every lyric of life's song - every slight octave change, every lilt and whisper Most people sing along and don't really listen. Or simple don't care for lyrics at all. Tonight the lights of Reno spread out around the bend and beyond the lights of the residents and 7-11's It's midnight and I can hear a faint, yet familiar lyric in my belly in my center My breath collects on the windshield the desert is frozen outside What a blinding, beautiful song. |