She pulls off her tank top and long gauze skirt. A thick, blonde braid rests in the curve of her lumbar. A woman fully seen by sun. Tiny bleached hairs glisten above her upper lip. A tiny scar near her left eye refuses to tan.
Her daughter sits on the floor with a book and earnestly begins. “Once upon a time…” I massage her mother’s arms, strong from hauling river water. The right side of her back is tighter. Copper skin radiates health. Muscles firm, not ropey. I coax her neck to lengthen. She lies still. Suspended in alpha. I stroke and prod and dig knuckles into pressure points. The swamp cooler groans and hums. I finally reach her feet.
Day after day she walks parched ground and burning rocks. Gullies run deep as the Colorado. Hardened to fossils. I scrape my hands. Stretching her ankles I peer up the length of her. She is the land she lives upon. Calloused soles imbedded with pulverized stone. Dust the wind has licked for centuries. A few miles away it whispers and whorls around tall red rocks. Defiant monuments to time. I anoint her feet in useless oil flowing in and out of salt licks.
Her daughter laughs. A freshwater spring. A song.