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Arcadia National Park - by Amy Hellman
we saw two hawks fly a lonesome circle, cut through turrets- a breeze,
then stiff hot air, you drove, and “Mr. Tambourine Man,” played again
and every time we listened, pretending the lyrics were the ultimate truth, Bob held us closer in tow.
there was a vastness to this green- the infinite tease
of pollen blew in through the window. We reached the top at ten
and from the mountaintop, before I opened the door, I felt a sincere vertigo,
and it was my fear, exposing me, that made the hawks circle lower with great ease
and I knew your heart, its every yen,
pumping, the open mound of tears I always knew it would be, but was always hurt to know.
I walked between orange pale boulders and sun-burnt tourists,
and made no move to wipe your brow clean of our drive.
eyes wide, we melted in the heat; your exposed chest weeped- I ducked, blinked. The hawks see nothing, I dared not shout,
they only know me by my smell, my skin, sunkissed.
We stopped and listened to a group of foreign travelers, arrive
hiding, behind our separate languages, in the blaring, we looked out.
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