Outside, the desert floor,
a frame cracked open.
Abrupt landscapes,
fifty peaks torn from the sky.
But here babies loiter
under tinfoil moons:
baked goods ready
for PTA meetings,
sweets tucked in
beneath the aluminum.
Last night, our sheets: white,
like surrender. Maybe this
is where we should go
when we are lost.
Heather Lang is a poet, editor, and literary critic. She serves as an adjunct professor at Nevada State College. www.heatherlangwrites.com
