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The Santa Teresa
Mountains are-- let's see,

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they're Northeast of Tucson,
Northeast of Mount Lemmon.

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And this is a poem
called "Santa Teresas."

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But the place where
the poem takes place

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is in the Catalina
Mountains, looking then

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Northeast toward them.

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Starting at the bottom with our
provisions, a tin of dull cake,

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maps rolled up the leg holes,
we spread along the white trail,

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gouged and blasted from
rock, passing the fern coves

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through sweat, tears,
numb in rainbows,

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passing through the songs
and stubble, the shadows

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of ourselves, until the
whole body strung out

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can find no holes.

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And we move, the ghost of
a long, unwelted, calloused

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souls, coming out
among the dead pinions,

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where there was no top.

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Below, the plains
of the San Pedro

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slide back and forth
on their colors.

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Coronado revels in
its history, singing

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to his sainted bastard children.

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And 40 miles away,
the Santa Teresas

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stand up, a gray block,
an erect clitoris.

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We take out our knives
and stab our hands.

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The flesh slides from our bones.

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The lions come whirling at us
through the trees like snakes

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and then away.

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