The prairie never suited her much anyway
With her hips, wide, like an open basket
Carrying so many sad stories, I knew
She'd never stay here among corn and wheat so plain
 
And God forbid, pesticides. She will take her Only
Son, bare feet, twisting rope of hemp-brown hair
West. She will take her organic tomatoes, her
Puffy breasts, her infrared photos of sticky maples,
 
Her sweet and sour smell, her lovely things,
Her good Karma to Colorado. She will lead
Child and husband to the cool, sparse
Place she dreams. She will gather the mountains
 
In her basket, trap the Coyote on her back, nurse him
To sleep in Yuma Green Egyptian cotton sheets,
Next to her own buttery skin, naturally, in a perfect house
She will wear Moon Blue and Cabernet Sauvignon
 
Streaks in her hair, paint over walls that barely
Contain the past. Later, when pictures are hung,
Bulbs planted, goats fed, chickens watered,
She'll make her own soap, a sterile cake
 
To scour away the dregs of a soul
Distilled again and again and again.