She picked an outcrop and undid her arm,
all rubber and good humor, dead as oil.
He flagged down sunset with obsidian
owl pellets, proving too late it was tar.
They weren’t scientists, just far from home.

When a new highway entered her—gold talus
flashing, blood on the low shoulder—she cried
she needed concrete shoes and arms like chains
because she couldn’t tell the light from poachers.
Or so they said.

© 2005 Christian Peet.
Originally appeared in Spinning Jenny