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.