If I Should Come Upon Your House Lonely in the West Texas Desert

Natalie Diaz 1978

I will swing my lasso of headlightsacross your front porch,

let it drop like a rope of knotted lightat your feet.

While I put the car in park,

you will tie and tighten the loop

of light around your waist —and I will be there with the other end

wrapped three timesaround my hips horned with loneliness.

Reel me in across the glow-throbbing seaof greenthread, bluestem prickly poppy,the white inflorescence of yucca bells,up the dust-lit stairs into your arms.If you say to me,This is not your new housebut I am your new home,

I will enter the door of your throat,

hang my last lariat in the hallway,

build my altar of best books on your bedside table,

turn the lamp on and off, 

on and off, on and off.

I will lie down in you.

Eat my meals at the red table of your heart.

Each steaming bowl will be,Just right.I will eat it all up,

break all your chairs to pieces.

If I try running off into the deep-purpling scrub brush,

you will remind me,

There is nowhere to go if you are already here,and pat your hand on your lap lightedby the topazion lux of the moon through the window, say, Here, Love, sit here— when I do,I will say, And here I still am. Until then, Where are you? What is your address?I am hurting. I am riding the nighton a full tank of gas and my headlightsare reaching out for something.