Cherry Cider

I parked under a sterile pecan tree,
in the lot of a broken wood gas station
that owned the intersection between Socorro and Carrizozo.

My right hand hurt from shifting
past sun cast spruce deer
lurch wandering,
a slow motion rain dance.

Two sweaty sugar boys teetered from my van,
legs still dreaming,
broke the air,
ran into the dust storm store
where truck men stood at a plywood counter counting smoke money.

I followed,
ricochet lizard steps
aching from three hundred sepia miles
under a still sun too high to touch.

A pockmarked styrofoam cooler
filled with ice blocks and old plastic milk gallons
propped open the door in sweet welcome.

My oldest boy reached in to touch the ice,
rubbed blotch water hands across his forehead,
under a piano hairline scar
marking the end of my marriage.

I chose a jug
counted quarters and nickels
under a stained Virgin of Guadelupe
tipped the mouth to mine,
let the cool red rush,
warm my hot tongue.

Near silence, no birds, just panting children
and the slow exhale of a torn-shirt man,
back against bad stucco,
eyes on me,
my raspy van,
the leaden horizon.

My boys sat on the dented hood,
shared red sips under sparse shade,
and we watched a war torn dog
spray hot shadows against gold crust dirt.