I live in a land of short trees,
tinder and kindling growing
wild on the blackland prairie.
The open blasting sky awaits
bottle rocket cigarette butt sparks.
Folks with an uneasy eye on
brown grass and the roadside
fireworks stands say we just
need one good hurricane.
The rocky soil is a doormat for
the chihuahua desert slinking
eastward. Its dragon’s breath wind
stokes the fires when they come.
—
Can you imagine the glory
of the crow, a black spell,
a rippled myth? What goddess
broke the simple spiral shell
and carved its powers
on her belly? Children, do
you see green towers in
your tales of water, sun, and
trees? At what temperature
does dancing turn to liquid?
Can you sing a song of rain
and pay the price to bring the
sleeping goddess from her bed?
Do you smell ozone, brother?
The old timers say it comes
just before the pallid rain.
—
Slow & Coiling
drought doesn’t rage
like hurricanes or tear
the world like twisters
it’s a slow dismantling
of yellowed ecosystems
ash blown on wind
blind salamanders
blocks from a jenga tower
pulled one by one
cracks snake the earth
the quiet collapse of cattle
roaming mudpits, abandoned
fawns starving on roadsides
constellations of vultures
summer’s stars dark and full
silent silent sky
smoky whispers of a thousand
cigarette wildfires, sirens
a lone bat loops the dusk
where swallows and kingbirds
once flew toward trees
songless losing leaves
months before their time
tree rings tell futures
constricted bands
a snake coiling around
this thirsty dying land
bring water, electrolytes
this night will burn
heat and light
have come untwined
out on the porch
I call back the dogs
swift feet, darkness
panting shadows
sweat beads my forehead
the stillness of trees
leaves roasted
beyond autumn gold
pray for rain, ask
in secret for hurricanes
they claim this red moon
only reflects
