Sedona

The vortex map says that the branches of the junipers
                   growing near the four sources have an axial twist,
and my husband and I wonder why we’ve never really felt any of the
                                            new age energy here.

On hiking trips, I remember my dad
                   pointing out “magic spots” in the forest—
three young trees growing in a perfect triangle,
                        the tangled roots of a fallen oak that looked like a throne,
places that in fantasy novels would warp you
            into other dimensions, and leave you at the hands
                   of capricious forest gods.

My mother said she’d felt my grandmother with her
                                    in Sedona’s Chapel of the Holy Cross, years ago.

We park below the church. The cross rises several stories
                            from between two rock formations,
anchoring the walls of the church to the side of the butte.
                 We walk up the curved paths through the garden to the top.
Inside, the cross is superimposed
                             upon the panoramic view of the valley and Bell Rock.
There are plain oak benches, candelabras
                                  made of carved and twisted metal.

People filter in and move through the quiet
          taking photographs. A guy with dirt-streaked jeans
comes into the doorway.
                                             Maybe it’s just his eyes adjusting to the dark,
            but he looks surprised to find us all here.

He slips off his muddy hiking boots and then moves faithfully
                                  to a woman’s side—his girlfriend in chiaroscuro
                half-lit by the windows half shaded by the towering cross.

I don’t sense my grandmother’s presence this time, either,
                but I feel this place.
I slip a dollar into the box and light my candle from someone else’s—
         my wish from someone else’s wishes—
                                               small constellations of desire.

Sedona Schnelby lived every day with this beauty
                                                               that came to be named for her.
              Her hotel and general store
                                                             her peach and apple trees
                              twisting under the force of it.

Hannah Haas teaches creative writing and composition at Indiana University Indianapolis. She received her MFA in creative writing from the University of Arizona. Her work has appeared in journals such as ACM and Black Fox Literary Magazine.