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She lives in the desert
with skin the color of sandstone
and the texture of an orange.
She’s a man’s man if you ever saw one.
Her carbine seems to have a mind of it’s own,
never knowing, when in the course of conversation
it swings from her side and fires.
Who knows where or at what- - -yet
if you investigate you will find a toad or scorpion,
or rather what is left after the damage 
of a 44 bullet.  
She lives alone….now.
A strange looking trophy resides in her bedroom.
Bleached white, the bones of a man, draped with gun and holster
seem at peace, among the stuffed rattler
and the panther.  
How love visited a young eastern visitor
in such a god forsaken place,
will remain her one gift….
her one earthly secret.
They were at the fountain, 
close by, in the foothills.
On a bed of burlap and willow branches
they enjoyed the shade and the 
change of weather.
Exploring each other endlessly they
devoured each detail with explicit
honesty and fascination.
They stripped and cleaned a rattlesnake
preparing to roast it over the open fire.
The smell, the noise, their strange scent,
all befuddling the night beast,
slowly circling their fire.
The panther attacked! 
Her lover, not armed 
was easy prey for the hungry beast. 
As the panther slowly took his life, 
the young man struggled into the fire, with
arms and legs and teeth latched onto and into the 
animal with a demon like death grip. 
The two were consumed. 
She never was the same after that.
No one mentions the bones. 
No one remarks about rattlers or panthers.
No one ever mentions the fountain 
and no one has ever seen another panther.

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