Sky Islands.

Ball, Sally

Eastern border between states,
southern border between nations:
the Chiricahuas. We're in the corner
astronomers say is darkest in America,
and the sky at night says Yes.
Says, You want stars?
I'll smear them in your nose and eyes.
And they are near and far, Venus huge
and then the constellations
washed in smaller glitter. Mars.

Sometimes I am Orion, armed
and tall and potent. Sometimes I'm a speck
of utter nothing. The dark at first domain,
then later depthless, obliterating.

Borders ... at the edge,
the sky says, You have no idea.
You think you know me
but you have no hope of knowing.

At the edge of Arizona, Border Patrol:
countless big white trucks with gold medallions,
every mile a "presence," U.S. flex.
Off duty, one of these guys runs us
off the road--really, he swings
his pickup out and we are in the ditch.

Lucky not to have flipped, lucky
to drive on, but not til after confrontation:
his shirt yanked up to show the sidearm, sadsack story
(agent en route to visit injured child in hospital)
and we're all fine, the car
is probably fine--but the edge
has chasmed there again. So near.

Straddle of shoulder
and gravel ditch, your hands
holding the wheel: hands of force,
of tenderness. Hands riding out
the scare, those hands I trust to have and hold
me. Save my life. Bring my life alive
inside the shell of me.

In the morning 1 look out, look south, to Mexico.
The flats--this sea of grasses--and then the rising hills,
so many destinations, fluid the way
the galaxies were fluid in the dark.

Here we are. We've brought the center
to the edge.

I wake you with my hands.