To Santa Fe

Ever since I left you the sky has been too narrow and the light too heavy and I inhabit the flatlands like an exile, dreaming of the Blood of Christ mountains and mesquite. The scent of silver sage is the perfume you wore the day you seduced me as I wandered your streets with my soul still echoing from canyon walls, and the hush hadn’t yet left me. And the flute players— Peruvian, you said— sent up aching hymns like smoke from a holy fire, curling through my ribs and loosening something I hadn’t known was too tight. Outside your chapel stood a bush robed with rosaries— garlands of pearl and plastic, turquoise, wood, and glass, whispering in the wind like the prayers of strangers I suddenly understood. Inside, the hush was deeper, diffusing the golden light that illuminated your impossible staircase spiraling upward without anchor, floating like belief in the absence of proof. I’ve lived as an exile ever since I left your arms — under flat songless skies where nothing echoes. But I still long for your embrace, and there will always be a hole in my heart the shape of Santa Fe.