In the desert language of her people one word does for wind and spirit.
Far from where she lives the word throws out potent lures of restless sand lit with sparks of mica.She surely sees them, breathes them: desert desires born of the city’s captivity.
No mirage, those lead-lit windows set in limestone’s fastness where Truelove spins warming tales of plenty. Where children immerse and infuriate her in the endless music of their strife.
And in the ways they say, I love you:
‘Do you always have to go?
‘How long will you be?
‘It’s dangerous out there.
‘Wish you were back (before she’s even gone).
‘Wish you were home
‘Where we can see
But not the part of her that wanders —never that —over fossil rocks,through feral cactus, under an ochre sun that cracks her skin and a white moon that cools it. Sleeping under stars that float on milk.