The Santa Teresa Mountains are-- let's see,
they're Northeast of Tucson, Northeast of Mount Lemmon.
And this is a poem called "Santa Teresas."
But the place where the poem takes place
is in the Catalina Mountains, looking then
Northeast toward them.
Starting at the bottom with our provisions, a tin of dull cake,
maps rolled up the leg holes, we spread along the white trail,
gouged and blasted from rock, passing the fern coves
through sweat, tears, numb in rainbows,
passing through the songs and stubble, the shadows
of ourselves, until the whole body strung out
can find no holes.
And we move, the ghost of a long, unwelted, calloused
souls, coming out among the dead pinions,
where there was no top.
Below, the plains of the San Pedro
slide back and forth on their colors.
Coronado revels in its history, singing
to his sainted bastard children.
And 40 miles away, the Santa Teresas
stand up, a gray block, an erect clitoris.
We take out our knives and stab our hands.
The flesh slides from our bones.
The lions come whirling at us through the trees like snakes
and then away.