Crossing Borders

     Driving through the Mojave, we
cross the Arizona line. At midday, 
the road striking out for nowhere
looks black as the rattler’s den. It’s 110 
and the air conditioner 
 
     can’t keep up. You brood, silent as sand 
choking in the grasp of high noon. I turn 
on the radio to fill the void. Someone yells, 
selling or singing, preaching or rapping—
I don’t know—I am 
 
     too caught up in some other song,
trying to remember the right words 
between mother and child. Something 
happened when you turned sixteen—
some black hole
 
     of anger. The distance between us grew 
into a droughted wall of dust. No gentle
breeze murmurs “Mother,” now. I no longer 
nurture, hold your esteem. I ask, but you say 
nothing. Empty, I fill canyons
 
     with desperation. Like saguaros praying
for rain, I need some cool conversation
from you, just once, some drop of life
that is so full of love, it does not feel the fall 
from grace, the scorch of letting go.