When your father curves the Buick along the mountainside
observe the lights of Indio
you will never have a father again
never as a child will you nestle between father and mother
before the push button radio
to watch the headlights snaking into the vast
brother and sisters lapbelted in the backseat
this is the closest description I can give you for the hurt you will feel:
the night
dense over the shadowed
dunes of Glamis
when their voices last echo in the canyons of your mind
you will hear the silence of the palms
and ache for them the way
chuckwalla aches for the sunrise
the way creosote sings for the rain
when your father dies in a fall
put on his broken watch
build a ring of campfire stones
find what love is left in you and give it
to the wild
Elisha Holt is a poet of seedpods, coyotes’ howl, and the wind over the chaparral. He was born in San Bernardino and raised in the rural Palo Verde Valley, a beekeeper. An MFA candidate at Cal State San Bernardino, his work has appeared in Badlands, Apercus Quarterly, Inlandia, and on the wall at The Camel Saloon.
