Delicate Arch

On a red rock plateau
      sunlight twists a body 
into a frame, inside 
        the frame cloud sharpens
rock; we call it a mountain;
      we call it the distance between reality;
we call it gravity pulling bodies 
        towards the edge of a cliff. 
Beneath rubber-soled footsteps 
         underground salt beds once wept 
water, ice, and erosion
         wept away sandstone.
Distortion turns a rock formation 
         into a ballerina.
A family sits on the nape of her back.
It is my family. 
In an alternate truth
the ballerina is my paternal grandmother
now missing. The genealogy 
of desolate landscapes links 
family with structure. In my reality,
there is no biological father, 
only a sperm donor. 
          In this reality, a grandmother is 
the only redemption for seventeen years of drought. 
          I say I don’t believe in god 
but tonight I do. Shrouded in dusk and wind
          I ask him to let my grandmother live 
forever or at least let me borrow his eyes 
           so I can see her 
 one last time on that empty cliff 
           above a dying river in the West.