She’s had enough of sameness

sand that stretches into desert

infinitesimal grains she finds everywhere

and so much slippage

from dunes that once took her breath

away settled now into flatness

her mother hung the marriage license

from the church in the main hall as if

it would disprove the daily reality of two

cities two homes two sets of what

the girl hated passing by the lie

calligraphed onto framed parchment

had long ago lost track of her own

undoubtedly buried under that accumulation

the sameness

she shields her eyes from

its shimmering crystal brown expanse

with its deadly allure

ignores the risk and danger the cold

that comes with sundown

the sounds she can’t identify where

she huddles in the lee of a dune

now and then over her glass she can see

a light inside a thin tent in the distance

but she has yet to discover the storied oasis

she thought she signed her name to

longs for an acacia trunk to slide down

and try to figure out what went wrong

to slip again out that side door into sunlight

and the cowboy reception

and not always have to shake this sand

from her soul/sole.