Jesica Carson Davis The Rest of Us

This desert is full of ghosts.

You can see them squat


by the side of the road,

adobe baked in their own ovens,


outposts of another time, a different

when, stripped down to withered


husks that hold whispers, remnants

of old lives, of those who moved on


after the highway’s migration

changed traffic’s path, changed everything.


Yet some witnesses remain:

a few locals, coyotes,


and the mesas that haunch against

the night as it sets in,


they might sometimes pay attention,

turning purple in the distance


as they hold their breath

for the rest of us.


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