At Night I Dream of Petra

 
 
Rose-gold is an ugly color, some candied sunset
cloying against a cheap sky. Any stone worth its dirt
has a bit of grit to it and refuses to be an easy carving.
 
Now marble has never been a stone, and there I find
the query:
                       what’s hard, and long, and red all over?
 
I can’t tell if its war or love or the Rocky Mountains.
 
I got this chipped premolar that looks just like one,
jagged and nearly crescent, perfect thing to hang
the moon off of. Mama loved that red rock (come
in she just cooked some greens) temple in Indiana
Jones. That same rose-gold color as the sunset
for a sweet tooth. I sure do love how its dug into
a misplaced Rocky. Running my tongue across
my petral molar I wonder if Mama didn’t chip it
just so I’d have a place to hide when new teeth burst
in and the jaw aches with a longing for something,
anything to get cut out.
 
 
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