Katherine Crocker
Trekking
His face barely visible behind white and red check,
the boy hissed through his teeth, my camel’s arse
reared up. I’m pushed forward in the saddle
then the front legs unfold, we lollop onward.
Long shadows, the sun behind us, Wadi Rum
in front. Seven pillars of pink sandstone.
The boy rattled his throat, we began to trot
toward the Bedouin tent sheltered under the cliff
and there we told stories on the way to Aqabar.
By the campfire under the desert’s shooting stars
a Roc could have arched his wings over that place
and we wouldn’t have noticed the white feather quills
fall. On the radio we heard the map-maker
was drawing another line, another boundary.
Page(s) 109
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