Friday, August 29, 2014
All afternoon the deer bed down
in the willow thicket, invisible to me.
Long after I stretch out for the evening
they rise like herbivorous wraiths
snipping every bud off the rosebushes
with teeth groomed for pruning,
stripping bark from the youngest trees
until pith shines like the moon’s marrow.
If I pause at the bathroom window
silhouetted by the light, they are statues
sculpted on the lawn, or the shadows
of shadows congruous as the grass.
In the morning I find their IOU,
a signature of hooves on soft earth.
Friday, August 22, 2014
Betatakin, a Navajo word,
but in the glossary of time
it means 75 to 100 people
lived here, families
or clans, 135 rooms, most
the size of a closet, some
smaller, sealed, full of grain.
Soot thick on stone walls.
A kiva round as a jacuzzi
to soothe the ever-present
existential ache about a future.
As caretakers the Navajo
invite us to look,
the light into pixels.
365 thousand sunrises.
Wall-to-wall carpet of dust.
A makeshift ladder
leaning like a shadow
toward a door no larger
than a window. A view
without an address.
Friday, August 15, 2014
It must have been quieter than usual
or noisier, depending on which
part of you was listening.
Either way, you were alone
in that space called home, a full cast
of insecurities waiting for cues.
On good days the commotion inside
must have sounded like applause
that turned into a furious scratching,
dozens of fingernails shredding
hundreds of scripts. There. Just enough
room to improvise, jokes
catching like barbs in the throat.
So focused on what you'd say next,
we never heard how the air
from your lungs hissed
as it erased your tongue, your lips,
every part of you that we loved.
Friday, August 8, 2014
Friday, July 25, 2014
Watch how the light folds into the earth
at a seam called the horizon, a bright thread
pulled taut but not broken, woven like a tapestry
between a latticework of tree limbs and the cold
stone distant mountains. Knowing the same light
lit the morning, tugged at the sunflowers
until they turned east, steeped all afternoon
like a cup of tea, and still stitched the day
shut is what it means to believe. Stand
with your hands on your hips and tell me
this sunset is not the reason you were born.
Friday, July 18, 2014
Wet dirt from beside my irrigation pond rises
to the barn’s eaves, up where the roof peaks,
so far out of reach the swallows simply stare
down at me with a bird’s disinclination,
their yellow-tufted heads bobbing like hardhats
in a construction zone, workers plastering
fresh adobe nests to the barn’s red boards.
How ancient the labor, older than our ancestors
coiling clay, studying this architecture of mud.