In a Grand Canyon Gift Shop

I picked out postcards

of a river slithering a route through rock,

of sunrays stretching across an abyss.

Eighteen years later, I remember

the postcard of a purple sky

broken by lightning. I don’t remember

if I sent or kept that canyon storm—

maybe it’s still raining

inside one of my desk drawers.

If it is true that a part of you lingers

in all of the spaces you’ve existed,

maybe I’m still standing

on an Arizona postcard horizon.