Sara Daniele Rivera

Someone I love died

here, he died and I drove back

to Albuquerque. Days later,

another love, another death, a drive

back to Algodones to pick

up the ashes of the first.

I can’t go farther than this.

On evening drives from Santa Fe I

repeat, I can’t go farther than this,

not even within the earshot of my heart.

Barelyness of light. Windows

stud the juniper hills at dusk, catch

opposing sun. They become

containment fields I can’t

reconcile. This place doesn’t

mourn, there is no vigil, only

six small suns in the holding

of my throat.


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