hike

now my mother wants to walk out to the rock,

the two of us on the wide empty trail, blasted

red dust in every direction, fat black flies diving into our faces.

this is before she got sick, though i suppose

the disease is still there,

heat-shimmer under her feet, stones closed over scorpions, over vipers,

cracks in the earth deep down where the water has fled.

in recent months i’ve learned the proper way to eat

a kiwi: cut in two, spoon digging the soft green flesh

from the cup of skin. the insides are remarkably delicate:

i lost my grip and saw the floorboards spattered and wet.

one must hold the rind firmly, vigilant against disaster.

i tell this to my mother as we walk. they say go at dawn,

go at dusk, but we are going now, with the sun like a whip,

like a tooth. rippling horizon, jet-stream sky,

bass-drum headache scooping up green. i am trying

to be vigilant, but i feel my fingers slipping.

i need to hold her in my mind, dark hair and thin shoulders,

upright in the weight of the air. i blink through sweat,

through shimmering heat. remember this!

in the haze is the rock. in the haze is my mother,

striding out ahead, long dirt path unspooling forever.