when I say I’m sorry
we moved to the desert
what I mean is
it’s too hot to pretend
that we know what we’re doing,
that the important thing to remember
about wastelands is they desiccate life
and what’s more intimate
than being loved to the point of madness─
what else could keep us together
in the same room, so close to the sun
sitting on stepstools and eating cheese
right off of our knives
out in the sagebrush,
we collect red flags like little rocks
in the grips of our shoes,
come home and pluck them out
on the sofa; you are the only witness here
there is no rain in this city
we sit at the window of our apartment
across from a theater that bears
my dead father’s name over the marquee,
our waterless lungs rapping
against the glass, and us waiting
for the time to come when the universe
lands on our fingers.
Hollie Dugas lives and teaches in New Mexico. When she is not writing poetry, she critiques novels and poetry in small writing workshops. Hollie has a knack for making language delicate. Her work was most recently selected to be included in Cactus Heart, The Common Ground Review, Adrienne, Under the Gum Tree, Folio, IP, Flint Hills Review, Slipstream, Tulane Review, Peregrine, and CALYX. She is currently a member on the editorial board for Off the Coast.