It is hard to be poor in Monument Valley.
The rocks look at you and roll away.
You never see the same butte twice
as far as your eyes.
You might have been born here to stars
frolicking between John Ford movies,
a John Wayne Claire Trevor tryst
that went as far as breach birth.
You were left here to pick up rocks.
You like to paint faces on them
to wash off in random cloud bursts.
You draw your bow and slice a lizard
with the arrow and rub stones together
to make fire that broils the skin
until it slides off to leave the sweetmeat
and forked tongue to sate your hunger.
You built your house with sticks and dirt,
pondering each move to make it right.
You were here to stay.
The rocks were all yours. So were the stars.
(14 June 2013)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander