Sedona
Katie Wilson

Canyons so red they seem stained
with the blood of a million births,
a place with more curves than all
the women in the world,
a preternatural womb cradling a whole town of people
as vulnerable as fetuses, gentle souls like shell-less turtles.
This is their last chance to live in a decade they missed,
in a haven with 31 flavors of freaks, none ready to leave Mother Earth
for a future with straight lines and Humvees
and polar bears with no ice
and teenagers with crystal-encrusted iPhones.

Over a display of moonstones,
the woman who reeks of patchouli and her girlfriend
in the vegan Birkenstocks
are discussing the matriarchal society
that Christianity raped.
Back then, the best a girl could hope for
was equality in a tribe,
praying to a goddess,
or maybe ruling a clan after her husband died.
But I don’t tell them their history sucks,
that the theory of our dominion was debunked,
that it’s a vague mythology.
Everyone needs hope.

A man is signing his CD covers at a table
beside the register
for his adoring public of three people
who ignore the clearance beads
on the other half of the display.
His music is vaguely Celtic with all sorts
of forgotten instruments
like the lute
and he wears a lace-up tunic with his Kenny G hair
curling around the collar.
He talks with a fan about Wicca and Druidism
with pronunciations and etymologies
that would make a Celt blanch.

In the pottery section a woman my mother’s age
is eyeing authentic pieces
with a reverence reserved for holy artifacts.
She has a yoga mat over her shoulder
and a wolf on her t-shirt.
She was definitely not born here.
Maybe she came after her divorce;
there’s a faded tan line in the shape of a ring on the hand
she pressed nervously to her mouth.
White guilt clings to her
vaguely ethnic head wrap
and her beaded sandals.
I bet she wanted to be Native American when she grew up.
I’d introduce her to Noe, the Navajo drug dealer,
but he’d just bum her out.

"Coexist" bumper stickers are challenged only
by Obama’s Yes We Can!
The owner behind the register
(who could be Jerry Garcia’s twin)
winks at me.
We share a moment of recognition
as we chat about the healing properties of Larimar,
cleansing with salt or moonlight,
and Aboriginal Australians
using crystals to encourage dreaming.
A lady asks us each to recommend a book.
We’re happy to help because,
after all,
we’re all in this together.