The holidays remind me of you.

Your scotch.

Your gold St. Christopher.



You kissed my face and

the sun went down

surrounding me in the darkness of your warmth,

rusted pieces of the past

glitter in the desert sand

filled with broken bits of quartz

and animal bones.

You found me there,

where ghosts hide behind the shadows of rocks

their spirits encircle the wind

they are dust,

arid land.

You close your eyes

inhale deeply,

you take in death

you take in life,

that is the way of the Mojave.