From a distance, the planet looks
soft as skin, mesas rising from the flat
land, hand held across
a bellybutton, small desert brush
with leaves curling like toes in the heat
hot sun begging down
over the yellow curves
and small hairs, freckled with pebbles
a continuous aubade
and there, there so close
is a single finger stroking
the pale blue, fingernail
ghost white, hanging
crescent moon, canyon
parting for the wind, the scream
Stacey Balkun is a New Jersey poet with her heart in the south. She was named an honorable mention in the Tupelo Press Spring 2011 Poetry Project. Her work has appeared in INCH, The New Laurel Review, Paper & The Sea, Hoot Review, and in cookbooks and audio recordings across the country. She lives in California, where she explores the deserts, mountains, and lakes.