Where I live, in this mountain desert state,
discretionary distance becomes innate;
land of thorns, of fangs, of searing heat,
separation of self degrees the oblique
from sands arid acrimony of fright.
Hot rattle-snaked days and scorpion nights,
discretionary distances of lows and highs
purport protection from poison’s guise;
step softly, step slow – now, quickly,
let’s go – the cacti repent as we flee
to a distance discretionary.
To be free of these, take this non-guarantee,
to travel stark canyons and rocky slopes.
If you’re careful, you can keep your hopes.

Where I live, in Arizona’s deserted lands,
nothing is above wariness’ demands;
when summer sun is hidden in dark monsoon;
when coyotes chorus howls at dusty moons;
it’s best to keep a discretionary distance.
As lightning flares with electric resistance
and hair stands on end with frightening persistence,
desert people hide from barrens existence.
Gila monster feigns desiccated disinterest,
tarantula stalks on its predatory quest,
horned lizards lurk, armor entrenched,
and buzzards home in on decomposing stench.
Discretionary distance needs to be desert applied,
if you don’t want to end up like those who’ve died.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 10/2/04