Susan Fealy

He wants to take her where birds grew legs long as rodeos, and a reimagined giant wombat tends to disappoint. He wants to drive her to a desert where they ghosted her in ochre, buried her, standing upright by a milky singing lake. He wants to walk with her along a curve of shattered moon, where human memory unmade her long ago. He wants to wake where sand blows yesterday from her face — where there is nothing but the terror of  his faith.