Joshua Trees

The bright beams go out into the Arizona night
and Juany is asleep, her head lying on my
right thigh. She has been asleep for hours, as
I take her home. Her baby son gently gurgles
between her and the seat of my bicentennial
pickup, rollicking yellow-green. I went down
to Hidalgo de Parral, to fetch her and her son.
She breathes into my lap, sleeping, a slightly
speckled face. Reached her hand up to my
cheeks, before saying good night, last night,
in that town where Pancho Villa was
assassinated.

Joshua trees spring from the landscape.
They are waving their arms, assaulting me.
Gray, in the dark mist of night, they accuse
me of things I have never done: I am not guilty.
Juany sleeps on, and has no idea of the dancing
shadows that are accosting me. Peacefully, she
and her baby son sleep. I drive. I drive until
I am lost, in Needles, California. Finally,
I stop at a checkpoint and ask: “Can you
tell me where I went wrong?”

The man tells me, simply,
“It is never wrong, to love.”