By Patricia Caspers

There were fifteen of us in a van
filled with desert wind.
The redhead next to me had anxiety attacks
and wanted a baby, now.

I swore I would see Havasupai
before I settled
with yellow flowered wallpaper.

When the van stopped
and all the women squatted
behind sand hills, I couldn't pee.

We drove into the swollen night
and thought we glimpsed a baby fox
slipping across the road.
Someone sang St. Judy's Comet,
and told stories of ants and armadillos
while I read Animal Dreams with a flashlight.

Finally, we slept by the canyon cliff.
Near morning I dreamed I fell
through the blood streaked sunrise
into blue-green turtleback water.
When I opened my eyes
I knew she was with me.

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