I rest upon a Navajo boulder
that has stiffened its neutral gradience
for nearly a millennium.
The sky is my southwestern empire.
Stone by stone, I build a leaning
pueblo, housing a photomontage tapestry.
I send my majesty above roadrunner lions,
praying in return he’ll promise me a prairie.
One that I can call my free range home.
Leather cowgirl boots scrape heroes from cliff-side fringes.
Extreme measures require some salvation, because
I haven’t gotten any answers yet.
Sandstorms say nothing.
I treat myself with unwritten love,
aiming to part the plains I cherished so much
as a result of rough decision-making.
Lying here in desperation,
the Fennec foxes join my consolation hour.
But then at the corner of Arizona’s daybreak,
a lightning stripe strangles my wish
like a rope lasso, tugging hope.
The dry plains I slept on, become bathed
in clayish slab gusts.
A man grounds the Earth horseback,
carrying the sun on his shoulders.
He must be Tsohanoai—the sun bearer—
the deity I’ve been waiting forever for
has arrived, bringing me the drought I
thirst for; the humidity I deserve, and
the privilege of no restraints.