Missing Tucson as I Drive my Car

I packed a mountain range in a handful of rocks.
Postcards pinned to the corkboard bring saguaros
east of the Mississippi. A small scratch in my elbow
revealed grains of sand in my blood.
This afternoon’s clouds resembled the tufted towers
over the Sonoran Desert, and for a brief moment
my body lifted from the driver’s seat, my body
coiled in cumulus memories. But I needed
to bring my gaze to the suburban street, the line
of cars slowing past an elementary school.
My signs are mostly internal now
but every hawk is cousin to my wild heart.

Whitney Vale MFA in Creative Nonfiction has appeared in numerous journals for poetry and prose. Mackinaw: a journal of prose poetry, Autumn Sky Daily Poetry, Louisville  Review, Thimble, Rogue Agent, Gyroscope, Quartet, Anti-Heroin Chic, Crab Creek Review, Black Fork Review, Palisades Review, Lit Angels.

She currently makes a home in Louisville, KY. with her husband, three cats and two dogs.