Poem: A Prayer to Georgia O’Keeffe

I want to live
in the negative space
of your landscapes, recede into
shadows on the horizon soft like
an echo,
a ghost note.

Desert mother,
I see you cloistered in
your Model A
in a swarm of bees,
painting fever dreams in
gold and ochre—

I want to be still. I

am a lens,
setting fires in the sand
with insolent focus.

Teach me to be
an aperture, quiet
and clean
as bleached bones,
speaking only to water.