The Grand Canyon

It was just after 9/11. Drawings of eagles  

hovered everywhere. “This”, our pilot 

said, “is how Santa Clause flies over Afghanistan.” 

EE-stan, like a cowboy song. We surfed the scrub. 

Earlier we had ascended to the sound 

of horns; it was as though we, and not the canyon, 

were the miracle: as though we were as inevitable  

as the sun rising. Vegas in the day was just a landing 

pad. Chastened by light, it didn’t know 

what it was supposed to be. But at night it had 

the tarnished glamour of hocked jewellery.

The American Way: either this, its promiscuous glitter,

or The Hoover Dam; the brightness of its austerity. 

An archangel gathering its wings? Or plain old destiny? 

From My Father is Calling the Neighbours Names, published by Vine Leaves Press.