We rode the canyon rim
looking for traces of justice,
superior death breakers, the
dangerous sandstone ledges
incarcerated bleached skeletons
of those outlaws less skilled who rode
before us, their bones, the grim remains
of the sad western tale, some stagecoach
robbers, some preachers,

the ridgeline lacked a
fragment of history, it was
ours, The Sundance Wives,
revolutionaries on horseback,
you would read about us in the
pulp magazines the desperados
bought to see if they'd made it into
western print, and if they did, to read
if their fame was worth the cover price,

somewhere in Natchez,
the church bells were ringing,
our religion percolating in the
sandstone ledges trickling water
down upon us, baptized lesbians
with a placer claim and unpublished
mineral guides, pussy a piece and a
drinking steerhorn each,

watching for the tumbleweed,
we've not yet come into contact
with the hoof of the wild boar, but
they say in print that our property lays
to rest at the Gates of Doogun Hill, two
tombstones that will eventually lead us to
revolt and take over the Establishment because
something sure has happened here...

Copyright 2.3.2010 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist