Red Rock Canyon, February 8, 2022
Photos courtesy of Teri Vela.
By Teri Vela
Of little note—
the bottles of milk and water, six ounces max.
Nipple tops, one with a rubber straw; she likes
to spill and give the rest to the dog.
Then the solid snacks: strawberries
cut into fingernail medallions, vague isosceles,
popcorn for my father, a banana he can share.
Cross hatched crackers with the pepper delight.
The dog needs his travel bag, plastic pickups
and a greasy canvas fanny pack dotted with kibble.
Collapsible water dish.
We pile into the car. June makes the sign for drive.
I file us past the Catholic high school in session,
the national park gate, the lines of cars,
leisurely hikers on a weekday,
the dogs, the runners, the toilets.
A western bluebird shakes all the tree boughs,
disappears before the baby can turn.
I haven’t seen the red earth in three years.
Teri Vela (she/her) is a latinx queer poet, witch, mother, and former lawyer, born and raised in Las Vegas, Nevada (Southern Paiute traditional lands).
Photo courtesy of Teri Vela/Sean Atkinson.