I run through sagebrush
in cowboy boots and curlers ignoring the laughing stars I can’t read The low hills look the same I can’t find the homestead
or where we let Grandma Betty’s ashes fly to the persistent wind
Kunka’s cinnamon rolls and ham steaks brands burning into bovine flesh I hear the wind smacking the American flag in front of the post office steps where my great-grandfather died of a heart attack
Kunka as she feeds milk to bum lambs from warmed up Coca-Cola bottles with sticky nipples
Stumbling over rocks I fall down look at the map of stars hear Patsy Cline’s distant voice reminding me love only lends itself to heartache
I wake up with
sagebrush in my face, the wind whipping my hair, one of Tracy’s rodeo belt buckles in my hand, and I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep.