by Hope Jordan

 

In this great dry empty, 

petroglyphs work their way up from prehistory; 

chiseled images of bighorn sheep, 

human hunters, alien spirals. 

Only months ago we decided together was better than not 

and there was a sort of miracle to us.

In Escalante cattle and mule deer mingle, 

wander fenceless across highways. 

I grip the armrest like a banister, 

afraid of us tumbling down that grand staircase.

I yearn to see a bighorn, 

just one silhouette against a peak – 

but nothing. Just air and rock 

and rock, red and golden, descending 

into valleys so far down I’m dizzy 

and we’re cresting a ridge 

with no guardrails on either side, 

not even trees to cushion a crash. 

We drive through a desert 

where highway signs warn 

“Eagles On Road.”

We drive through a desert 

named for San Rafael, the archangel 

whose name means “God heals” 

and I am not sure about God 

but this must be healing,  

all this desert, this driving, 

this encapsulating,  

risking, then resting.

This must be healing,  

this series of small things – 

the campground where Germans 

drink wine and fry dumplings,  

the weak Utah beer,  

the stone, the sun setting, 

the jackrabbit, the rooster 

crowing, the sun still rising