after the painting by Kay Sage

I don’t want to lean this far away from you,
but bone-shudder tall and still, you’ve turned
so rigid. Backed into a corner, windblown
cliffs stiff against sunwash—have you angled

away from me, or from us all? Baby,
I call you baby from exasperation. There’s more
to see in this world if we don’t let it dry up
around us. Once, we found love in this

landscape: cholla blooming like my bouquet,
petaled fury. A gust blows up my skirt and I wish
you’d laugh with me. Crouch down. Look at this
slash of blue rock against red dirt. See, a sprout

of some wild something rooted in the hard earth,
reaching for the wind we make with our hands.