Facing the Desert...Facing the DesertHer hair was a dust devil, matching her eyes when she leftArizona. I saw the dust once before,the wind sending it in circlesto chase its tail like a dogacross the I-10. Coming home from TucsonI want to spit on the yellow grassuntil she comes back. (The smell of rain is a cousin’s wedding that I go to yearly only to remember they still exist.)The rain died her hair darker, black as the dust grew red.The streetlights blurand I trace her cheekbone along the light polesthat disappear as the rain gets heavier. The wa
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