Brenda Hilliman

Saguaro 

Often visitors there, saddened 
by lack of trees, go out 
to a promontory. 

Then, backed by the banded 
sunset, the trail 
of the Conquistadores, 

the father puts on the camera, 
the leather albatross, 
and has the children 

imitate saguaros. One 
at a time they stand there smiling, 
fingers up like the tines of a fork 

while the stately saguaro 
goes on being entered 
by wrens, diseases, and sunlight. 

The mother sits on a rock, 
arms folded 
across her breasts. To her 

the cactus looks scared, 
its needles 
like hair in cartoons. 

With its arms in preacher 
or waltz position, 
it gives the impression 

of great effort 
in every direction, 
like the mother. 

Thousands of these gray-green 
cacti cross the valley: 
nature repeating itself, 

children repeating nature, 
father repeating children 
and mother watching. 

Later, the children think 
the cactus was moral, 
had something to teach them, 

some survival technique 
or just regular beauty. 
But what else could it do? 

The only protection 
against death 
was to love solitude.