Utah Territory, 1893

A washed cup, 
folded socks, 
three unworn shirts 
with no scent of him. 
Smooth bedsheets, 
dry towels. 

She begins to know 
something of scapegoats; 
those who are left 
to wander in the desert 
unburned. 

This desert 
is not a rose. 
Petals fall 
uncounted 
from the catalpa. 
All the grasses 
are in Nebraska 
blowing westward 
in silver waves. 

Unmended fence, 
empty barn 
two children in the yard 
quick as sparrows 
between sun and shade. 

Smoke ascends 
from the lamps, 
gathers at the ceiling, 
soot ghosting 
the walls.