ISSUE: Fall 2023
We hike up a chorus of quartz, beads patterned
into the sand’s veil. Wind catches sagebrush
like trout in the man-made stream next to the
whiskey-tasting cigar bar. The event specialist
pronounces her name like a tree falling,
instead of the harvest it was gleaned from.
But then I too say my name
like a flat prairie. We meet a New Mexico expert
from Boston. He explains how my family’s land
grows black acorns and golden apricots,
which make the perfect altitude elixir
upon guest arrivals. He has a hawk feather
tucked in his hat, which explains
his power. My cousin Antonio gave one
to young Alex as a graduation blessing.
She now has a record label, springs flowers
from the roots of her hair. After we pass
the Grand Hall and the spa, I am offered champagne,
Gruyère. Bubbles congregate in me and lift to skull,
my body so virgin from a generation
of sea-level living. The sun sets every
dial to purple. I start estimating how much
bone marrow this place would cost,
how many family heirlooms I could barter
to fill their little museum. When we finally arrive
at the Historic Chapel the resort
was built around, the ceremony plot
is nearly fifty feet away. A golf cart is offered
to take me back to where I started
but I am already where everything started,
before the earth was subdued, before
the luxury bunkhouse that hosts up to forty-six guests.
I doubt my turquoise wrist, measure
the Midwest wind erosion to the cattle brand
behind my ear. What knowledge do I still own
that isn’t already framed in the Welcome Office?
Was the coyote asleep
while my lavender was repotted?
