WEBVTT

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This is a crazy little
poem about Salt River,

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which you have to go through
to get to White Mountain.

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Go up through Globe, then the
Salt River and the Snowflake.

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"Salt River."

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Chasing Indians,
you pass the miners

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at Crystalide hanging
by their lips.

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Your teeth are
braids and filigree.

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And there they are, a whole
Sunday way, pineapples

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for heads, running
naked through the rocks,

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fornicating, painting their
bodies red, baking cakes.

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The torch in your pocket
sears a map on your leg.

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You curse your horse
that above ran away

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through the orchard
loaded with cameras.

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You think of your relatives,
like pictures in bed.

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But your hand
swings out in front,

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a history written on its palm.

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Swelling, growing bigger,
leading you on, only a few

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more leagues, straight
down over the rocks.

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Already you can hear
their music, the grunts,

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barefoot they're leading
out their best virgins,

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breasts exposed, veiled,
not at all like them.

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A few more feet,
you drop, then are

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running, a cat across
the land through children

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blowing whistles, beating
pots, cheering your wounds.

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Kiss in a light too strong,
too white for photographs.

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