Jacked up on old fantasies
of fierce men with guns
and fists tough enough to take out
Spaniards hissing at my long hair
and Mexicans, Italians touching
my breasts on streetcars
I’ve got this cowboy
combing my hair.
For now all the borders are safe,
home on the range.
.
Back in the north in the winds
in the late spring blizzards freezing calves
still slick with the snot of birth
I may sculpt dreams differently.
His moustache might tickle,
could direct spirits to spin
tighter casings around my heart,
kicking the handyman loose.
.
In preparation I savor moments
like single pomegranate seeds
bursting sweet across my tongue.
I gather him to me and feed us both
on tender moves, animal lust,
creosote blossoms and
wide,
wide
clean valleys.
.
orphan poems 