Danielle beazer who is she

You follow highways behind hills, factories, farmlands, tired of wandering abandoned tracks, tired of wanting across time. You unlatch a box of deer hair, pheasant hackles. Hunched over the table lit by a green lamp. You pinch pheasant tail fibers on the thread, tie them into place,. Moths tap inside the lampshade, spiraling the wrong way home. Clouds turn from white to gray to black and while you sleep it pours, fish leaping for the false flies. You dream you catch them all and lay them side by side—a silver shroud.

You think you have caught her when you hear laughter. She serves on the governing board of the Utah Humanities Council and is originally from Charlottesville, Virginia. All things crisscross before they disappear into a silence throbbing between jutted rocks. A trucker drives on a road. A Pontiac guns from the closest town, swerves toward me, honks,.

Our sacrilege breaks the reverie summoned from eons of layers that streak rock. If we live in dreams, our eyes opening and closing to vistas we create. Our crossing notches a groove in my palm—a new map I now see in my hands.

Sunday evenings a widow of thirty years closes her book on the red hills she has known since childhood,. I was in love with someone and maybe I mistook him for God. I have lost many people—my father, my brother, a friend. Conceived on an early March night, she is still on the other side— the shuttered streets and trace of wood smoke, all I can embrace on this one. We were a strange coupling in the skeletal frame of the house we trespassed near the highway.

You carried me piggy-back across the threshold and I stuck my head through the unfinished kitchen window. Wind rattled studs of the walk-through closet and master suite. I walk an obsidian labyrinth west of town, place my old Self at the center, retrace the path out the rock circle, and face renewal at an ancient shoreline across the valley. The setting sun turns the hematite of red hills molten in its crucible, spins shells of animals long since gone into sandstone.

Waldrep Andy Young. She has also been published in Terrain.