In the desert, a speck of damsel-fly flits
Over sand, not mud. The drought lies
With occasional sprinkles. Dropping, men’s eyes
Follow the fly, tracing ringlets
Down a fiery air through drying earth scent.
“Jesucristo!”, chihuahua barks,
And a hiker in pink boots sets down Karl Marx
On a blanket by her pink tent,
Draws all eyes to her blue veined legs and burned brown
Mexi-Cali face, grey hair, frown,
And drawled accent.
The drone’s shadow is no larger than a bee-spy
Circling a dead valley, referred
By interpretive dance, a misread, or lie.
On her, male eyes. On the drone, hers.
She, as sacristan, gathers Lorde, Marx, Fanon,
Wrapping some towels on them, her legs,
And a scarf for her weed. She pulls her tent’s pegs,
Deflates it, then thinks to crawl in.
The men watch her sharp ass pointing at air
Like a searchlight, ack-ack, at war,
Sectioned yet more.