At a Days Inn in Barstow, California

It’s dusk on a Tuesday in June. A hot wind
       bears down and east. In my room, a stranger’s
hairclip lies like a gilded insect beside the sink.
       Hours later, it’s still dusk; it will be dusk all night.
Last month, I cut the masking tape from a box my mother left
       my sister and me. On the lid, she wrote, Life is hard, not
unbeatable. If I can do it, darlings, so can you. 2 am. A rosy dark
       dusting the window, the heat a ladder into sleep.