top of page

The Hidden Miracle


Loley Line Drawing_edited.jpg

34.8697° N, 111.7610° W

Just after the high school 

the whole thing opens up. 


You don’t know it’s coming but there 

it is: desert bowl once a black ocean


floor, now bare, the grayedgreyed agave’s

smoky flesh in sediments. I came to eke out


some ritual, touch the hidden miracle

to my breast. But meditation left me


as a stalk in the red rock: tall and alone, 

wind through me and the song of wind


cooing, too soft to decipher. Night stars

bore outward but never into me, their white eyes


rolled back in trance, reverent to the Other God,

Other World. Me, so material, so crude 


and human. Wolves in every direction but a magnet 

repulsion forced them from me when I called


and when I sought the potion in paws of bobcats 

or mythic mammals at the canyon, 


their figures faded from the caves’ wet cheeks, 

never jumped from the walls to initiate me, never poured


their secret recipe into my palms though I cupped 

them at the riverbed, left my flesh—


faithful sliver—browning in the stone home, 

swore to be pure to the amber light 


of sycamores while the king snake 

heaved and the crow dove overhead 


in wide circles but didn’t land. 

Dusk drowned in a lavender milk 


beyond the airport, so quiet, its secret 

gone in minutes as I stood 


on the roadside, empty-palmed 

in a long night.

Remy Pic - Remy Ramirez_edited.jpg

REMY RAMIREZ has an MA in creative writing from the University of Texas at Austin. Her poems have been featured in The Southern Review, Room, Breakwater Review, and The Dodge, among others; her essays in Marie Claire and Cherry Bombe Mag; and her celebrity interviews in NYLON, BUST, and Tidal. She lives in Sedona, AZ because the thrifting is good and so is the karaoke.


I moved to Sedona in 2017 with romantic ideas about cultivating a healing connection to nature. But the year following my move was deeply painful—one of the worst of my life—and I felt shunned by the fecundity of the landscape. This poems maps that time.

bottom of page