Here. A place that is slipping. A place where you hear singing.
I once thought this was the desert.
This is the desert. You can get used to anything.
My love.
Say it: My love. My love.
I couldn’t get over the grotesque body. A baby is a beautiful thing.
It comes into this desert. Of Joshua Trees. A red-wing blackbird.
I push the furniture together. Making space for the desert.
A coyote ran across the street. In front of the bus.
The passengers stared out the window. Hands on glass.
The force of rain fall. A monsoon. Pushes dirt.
Say it. Say it. She told me there are
16 planes hovering in the sky.
Pete won’t spend a summer here. The desert isn’t a place for a city.
There are baby mourning doves on our roof.
Every morning.
Coo. Coo. Coo. You know.
Paul Sacksteder is a stay-at-home dad and teacher based in Las Vegas. His work has appeared in a variety of places, including the Hawaii Review , Barnstorm , and Sun's Skeleton .