We Make These Mountains.

You see this, Shelly asked and motioned to the desert 

and the blue haze sky and the sun 

sliding as if curtain track behind the mountain,   

This is all fish and shells and our bones. We make these mountains.  

We were still 376 miles shy to the coast and skipped lunch.  

All I could think of was how 

Charlie and I weren't on speaking terms, the smell 

coming from the garbage disposal, guesstimating the next time I'd have sex, 

how I hadn't poop since Tuesday.  I don't understand the sky 

and that's all I think about lately, I said. 

Shelly sighed letting her entire body take a shock that startled me.

The subject changed to what town to stop in for dinner. 

Pot roast or fried chicken?

Then, we walked back to the car in silence.