Taklimakan

The bones of the Earth are exposed
In this place. Crumbled runnels--

Light & dark, sand & stone
Ridges collapsed. Skull, scapulae,

Curving spine--
The vertebrae of an ancient leviathan 

Stranded in the Himalayan rain 
Shadow. And underneath, its desiccated belly 

Pregnant with the lesser dead, 
Tasted, digested—forgotten. 

A faded photo, the Victorian stranger's
Formal stare through time's sepia veil. I felt

That I should know her in the dusty
Antique shop. I did not. If I bought her, framed, for $50,

If I hung her on my wall, would it be 
Remembering? I watched a woman die, 

Once. Time wasted her. Blue eyes 
Turned gray, and her laugh became the gurgle 

I cannot forget. She said, "I am the last, my friends are gone," and she cried.
Salt preserves the lost. In the Taklimakan

Where mummies sleep, the horizon shrouds
Auburn dust. This desert is growing,

Though people plant and water. Snowmelt
Shrinks each year. From space, we see

Alluvial fans, palsied fingers splayed,
Grip the earth in salty lines, scratches inside

A coffin lid. When I stand at the edge of this desert, I am
A mote in a monster's skeletal eye--

An empty socket, an age
spot on the face of the globe.


This poem first appeared in Haydens Ferry