Someday soon, in the distant past,

with an evening the colour of falling

maple leaves, I am trapped in a windowless

room – the desert is within us all.

I pose, pleased with my skin of darkness

and I will speak to you in lizard tongue

and shining face.

But night is still night to conjure

a backdrop of Georgia O’Keefe’s

bleached bones and bountiful blooms,

I come to you with my wild soul

thirsty for sugared water with fruit

nestled into my indigo hair.