THE GRAND CANYON OPENS ITS LEGS WIDE

KENZIE ALLEN

 

Pinked marble, ochre lapels,
this wedding chapel of petrified
small creatures gone dust to tar
to colossal river to rubble to
film grain clotted in the wallow.
I reach for you—twelve miles
as the crow flies—they call my neck
holy and treacherous, my veins
copper-ridden and boiling, see
my many points of interest,
name them, anchor a short-lived mine
to my upturned lip, accessible
by stagecoach and clever fingers
at coin driven viewfinders. Hot
rocky mess, broad broad, show me
with your arms how much of me
can’t be held. How wounds deepen
the soil of me, how the oceans give way
to floods, lakes, a single river
which threads only where it can—
snake’s back, scenic all the day long—
how when you drive away from here
14.4 megapixels won’t do me justice,
you’ll say nothing really does it but
dipping in and experiencing it
for yourself, every purpled swelling
more luscious than the last.

 

 

 

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