Rachel and I walk the dirt track
around and around—there are
goat heads in bloom, and she pauses
to notice how beautiful the small purple
flowers are before they become vicious
and sharp-toothed, hostile and harsh.
How much aggression begins as beauty?
I have no love for the goat heads, but
now, seeing them sprawling and soft,
I can’t help but bow to the paradox
that exists in everything, even these woman
who walk circles in the middle of the desert
just for the joy of walking together. Something
in them has grown hardened and sharp.
They speak of it and weep and laugh. Something
in them softens into tiny lavender blooms.