Liza Porter

 She Could

 

The sun sets so damned slow

in this desert, from the moment

it hides behind the horizon

 

all the way through the red,

the orange and blue, the deep gray

to the last light of day

 

a woman might have just enough time

to change her whole life.

She could be smoking on the front porch

 

as the last hot rays paint her face

from beyond the hills. In the yellow

afterglow, she could crush out the butt

 

in the gravel and walk silently inside.

She could pack a bag or write a note.

Or not. And when the darkness drifts

 

like waves on the warm evening breeze

she could pick up her keys

from the kitchen table and see

 

a single planet shining

through a western window.

She could climb behind the wheel

 

in the empty howl of night

and turn that engine wide over.

She could go. North or west—

 

any direction at all—

into that pale, teasing light.

 

from What wildness is this: Women Write about
     the Southwest (2007, University of Texas Press: Austin)