Magdalena & Hwy 60

Night, and desert flora becomes
glowing eyes following us past
every road sign. Unexplained lights winking,
middle of nowhere psychedelic— like we fed
our heads something other than cigarettes
and soda before jumping in the Blazer,
driving west. Maybe we absorbed mariposa pollen
or cactus dust flitting through open windows–
lungs capturing peyote spores,
skin digesting vision quests.

We decide to stop—desert quiet
too loud for Midwestern city girls.
We register at the motel, grateful for a bed,
a good night’s sleep. Awakening to sand-blown sunshine
in this quaint wooden-walled room, gold name plate
on the door: The Hunters. We think the description apt–
we are hunting. We do not know what.

Sighs, then reluctant repacking of the truck, we
turn in our key, strap on seat belts—
our oasis shrinking as tires log anticipation
with each revolution. Onward into emptiness,
flowers now only petals, cacti wearing needles
and not bandido uniforms, UFOs banished behind blue.

But our high still there,
driving us through,
driving us,
driving.

© January 23, 2008. Samika Swift. All Rights Reserved.