To Santa Fe
Ever since I left you
the sky has been too narrow
and the light too heavy
and I inhabit the flatlands
like an exile, dreaming of
the Blood of Christ mountains
and mesquite.
The scent of silver sage
is the perfume you wore
the day you seduced me
as I wandered your streets
with my soul still echoing
from canyon walls,
and the hush hadn’t yet left me.
And the flute players—
Peruvian, you said—
sent up aching hymns
like smoke from a holy fire,
curling through my ribs
and loosening something
I hadn’t known was too tight.
Outside your chapel stood
a bush robed with rosaries—
garlands of pearl and plastic,
turquoise, wood, and glass,
whispering in the wind
like the prayers of strangers
I suddenly understood.
Inside, the hush was deeper,
diffusing the golden light
that illuminated
your impossible staircase
spiraling upward without anchor,
floating like belief
in the absence of proof.
I’ve lived as an exile
ever since I left your arms —
under flat songless skies
where nothing echoes.
But I still long for your embrace,
and there will always be
a hole in my heart
the shape of Santa Fe.
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