Joshua Trees by Carla McGill

Joshua Trees

 

They are repetitive
across the hills for hours,
stillness in the space around them.
As for the sky, one dark cloud
drawn out as if between
two hands and me underneath,
held together by skin, scrutinizing
the world for severity,
for intention, for final episodes.

The other cars seem lost,
but the road is even,
the pavement, newly blackened
and unbroken. Destinations
and departures, resolutions
of the human creature—they all
soar past like blackbirds
and hawks. It is the piercing
alertness of the lizards that stays
with me. I know they are out there,
pausing, watching. They know
that interruption will come.
They know enough
to be suspicious.


Carla McGill
Carla McGill’s work has been published in The Atlanta Review, Shark Reef, Crack the Spine, Common Ground Review, Vending Maching Press, Schuylkill Valley Journal of the Arts, and other literary magazines. Her story, Thirteen Memories, featured in The Penman Review, received an Honorable Mention in Glimmer Train’s MAR/APR 2016 Very Short Fiction Contest. She writes poetry and fiction and lives with her husband in Southern California.

Featured image: Joshua Tree National Park by Christopher Michel @ChrisMichel. CC license.

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