There never was a marriage. Only
a pack of coyotes bunking in the
foothills behind our house, taking
housecats into brittlebush, pools
tepid as bathwater. There were
mountains shaped like camel humps
made of rocks the color of Mars.
There were rings of desert lavender
to repel scorpions around a house
made of stucco, which is made
of sand that would descend like a hell of
bricks during a haboob. There were cactus wrens
making homes in hard places while we
walked the canals at sunset.
There never really was a marriage,
only long walks on canals lined with
saguaros while rock pigeons made nests
in the attic and coyotes nosed the
foothills behind houses made of sand.
Not a marriage, just snow-capped mountains
glinting in the distance like a mirage.
Just the miracle of walks along desert canals
full of melted snow. Walks in the valley, the
place where all the rivers go.