After forking alfalfa to the horses,
you sit with your first cup,
first Tesuque sun easing through
windows in LaBajada red
adobe—like liquid tinted pink,
this cornsilk light runneling over the gentle-
curved sills. You feather
the long fingernail file
through beveled arcs and strokes, deliberate
as the violinist guides the bow. Your hands
cast shadows of dancers
to the flagstone floor—shadowed steam
from your coffee, a gossamer
curtain they make love behind
in a spirit breeze. Could this be
the kachina’s silhouette—the sacred omen
we’ve craved in our lone quests
for the dance perfected?
                                    I watch your fingers
whisking alfalfa leaf
from your gold hair, Zia sun
steepening into the room. This afternoon,
in blue sage and cholla along the Rio Grande,
we’ll muse over a red ant hill,
smooth as workings of a jeweled watch.

You’ll spoon, with the nail of your little finger,
a garnet they’ve mined
and maneuvered to their granular roof
shingled in glitter—a lone moon you’ll choose
from this universe. As you lift it
slowly toward the palm I hold above the hill,
spill it and with your nail tip
roll it across the synapse
of all my nerves, a frenzy of ants
comes to a standstill
in this eclipse of lovers locked perfect for the dance.

From The Garnet Moon (Rainshadow Editions, University of Nevada, Reno, 1990)
© Paul Zarzyski. All rights reserved. These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.