I will swing my lasso of headlights
across your front porch,
let it drop like a rope of knotted
light at your feet.
While I put the car in park,
you will tie and tighten the loop
of light around your waist—
and I will be there with the other end
wrapped three times
around my hips horned with loneliness.
Reel me in across the glow-
throbbing sea of greenthread,
bluestem prickly poppy,
the white inflorescence of yucca
bells, up the dust-lit stairs into your
arms.
If you say to me, This is not your new
house but I am your new home,
I will enter the door of your throat,
hang my last lariat in the hallway,
build my altar of best books on your bedside
table, turn the lamp on and off, on and off, on
and off.
I will lie down in you.
Eat my meals at the red table of your heart.
Each steaming bowl will be, Just
right. I will eat it all up,
break all your chairs to pieces.
If I try running off into the deep-purpling scrub brush,
you will remind me,
There is nowhere to go if you are already here,
and pat your hand on your lap lighted
by the topazion lux of the moon through the window,
say, Here, Love, sit here—when
I do, I will say, And here I still
am.
Until then, Where are you? What is your address?
I am hurting. I am riding the night
on a full tank of gas and my
headlights are reaching out for
something.
__________________________________
“If I Should Come Upon Your House Lonely in the West Texas Desert” from Postcolonial Love Poem. Copyright © 2020 by Natalie Diaz. Reproduced with the permission of Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota, www.graywolfpress.org.
