Whenever I go I see wagon trails,
rutted down the back of I-15
wound like braids through sidewalks, alleys
everywhere, it seems, where roads can cross
and sunlight drip like molasses.

They were such strange things to behold
these spine-carved lines that turned my ankles
scraped like tumble weeds against
the serging of my petticoats.
Back then, I merely twitched aside my hems
and passed them by as if they were
no different from the a line of patching tar
curved like a water moccasin along the road.
A trick of gravity, I thought at first
or else the harbinger of an earthquake
prophesied to shake the state about our ears.

At first they were no more than a mirage
dancing between the mountains.
But they came closer, until I could make out
the ghostly sweep of petticoats
the cartwheels turning up ethereal dirt
senseless and unknown to all the cars
darting past like slick water beetles.
Faces lined against a thousand miles,
teeth-cracking winters, the wind of the Great Plains
I watched them pass, a hunching line
eyes heavy with too many burnings,
too many exiles.

Like earth beneath the wicker-work of spokes
my heart shook from my ribcage to my wrists.
As one transfixed by a hurricane
I let them overwhelm me and move through
with all the power of a memory
I never had, but which runs through this soil
deeper than these phantom trails.

I never walked
down roads of rocks and broken glass
or through grain thick as trees.
I never stood inside the canyon
ragged lungs beating in dry altitude
to gaze upon this desert with eyes
cracked with determination and despair.
I never was a Mormon
yet too well I know
the torch upon the lintel
the throat that breaks in condemnation.
Now, I touch my face and feel the bones
shift beneath this temporary flesh.
Somehow, through cells and arcane combinations
I feel it still; the hand cart wheels
grinding deep into this century.

As the ectoplasmic caravan departs
a woman lingers, wrapped in calico
that cannot hide the segolilies.
It is but a moment that she looks into my eyes
and yet I almost swear I see my face
and hers in mine
before she nods and turns back to her march
westward,
ever west.