Emily Vance Brown

by Joy Sullivan

First, you must realize you’re homesick for all the lives
you’re not living. Then, you must commit to the road
and the rising loneliness. To the sincere thrill of coming
apart. Divorce yourself from routine and control. Instead,
find a desert and fall in. Take the trail that promises a view.
Get lost. Break your toes. Bruise your knees. Keep going.
Watch a purple meadow quiver. Get still. Pet trail dogs.
Buy the hat. Run out of gas. Befriend strangers.
Knight yourself every morning for your newborn 
courage. Give grief her own lullaby. Drink whisky beside
a hundred-year-old cactus. Honor everything. Pray
to something unnameable. Fall for someone impractical.
Reacquaint yourself with desire and all her slender hands.
Bear beauty for as long as you are able and if you spot
a stunning warbler glowing like a prism, remind yourself—
joy is not a trick.