Leanne Hoppe
West
I move myself by moving
my body. You’re not used
to these landscapes:
the moon as source,
not shadow, not mirror.
Hollow barks suited
to something larger.
Something between desert
and canyon, landscape
indeterminable, unprompted.
And you’ve not died.
Just become others:
the cook at Tee-Pee Drive-In,
my boyfriend at 2 p.m.,
the child whose fallen
behind her parents,
too short or too slow,
but not forgotten.
This is my pilgrimage:
to discover you
in the entirety of your roles,
to catalog not country
but characters.