Leah Mueller

Truth or Consequences 
perches between faded mountains
like an old donkey. The hard sun 
beats on its gray back. Beneath the

Earth’s pockmarked surface,
heated water sizzles 
in an eternal cauldron.

Travelers soothe 
scars they ignored at home,
after pushing their bodies for years,
past the point of exhaustion.

A desert is ever vigilant,
its leaden sun sets with reluctance.
Heat persists for hours afterward.

Truth lasts a moment, 
but consequences endure for years—

each time I neglected sunscreen,
or stooped instead of lifting.
Now, my arms drift in water,
disentangled from gravity. 

I pretend to be healed,
weightless. When I rise from the spring,
the pull returns, my heavy limbs anchored

to dirt. In the distance, a mountain 
holds the skeletons of animals
that died there. I survive, 
immersed in curative broth.

Afterlife
It wasn’t time yet. She stood in line, jiggling her feet. People shuffled forward, one after another, like they were on an enormous conveyor belt. Just as her patience faded, a luminous face appeared. “Your turn.” She stepped off the ledge. An abyss swallowed her whole. First her feet, then her torso and head. Both arms outstretched; caught inside a cosmic vacuum cleaner. She’d made it home at last.