Mojave
Samantha Cramer
Taillights splash blood
on empty church shell,
stained-glass window eyes
flare, then dim
hallowed, and hollow
coyotes sing a western lullaby,
rattlesnake curled on the altar
and shifting spirits sigh
in the walls
stars the shattered glass
of smashed in windshield,
wreck the car to feel the
wind
this is how you say
my name with your eyes
closed,
the syllables a jumping off place
a long ghostwalk into
night.
About the Author
Samantha has been in love with poetry since she stole her mother's old college textbook of English poetry from the bookshelf at age 10. Poetry speaks to her of the archaeology of the psyche, the strata of loneliness and desire inside all of us, and the equally strong ache to be fully seen. Samantha is a Northern California native, and lives on the foggy redwood coast of Santa Cruz while working in education in Silicon Valley.