48. Basra

.

Spinning fast down a narrow 

track that clings to the 

tenuous layer of thin existence

balanced finely

between the infinity of 

hot blue sky and the 

vast plain of slippery 

golden sand dissolving under the 

burden of a relentless 

sun,

two kilometers east of 

The Tree 

(the only

Tree):

two foxes.

 .

They heard

us coming.

As we rose over the shimmering

curvature of horizon

they ran 

ripping

twin dust clouds off the 

broad surface

of the planet, cutting 

thin trails through the 

interminable heat to

disappear

over the slow

curvature of the earth’s edge

south 

 .

toward

nothing.

 .

Just sand.

47. Language

Against the caution of wisdom

I wish you at my door,

hungry for my hand

resting against your cheek,

whiskers rough as your confusion,

maybe no more.

I am hungry for your hand,

calloused by time, always

tougher than I could be.

I am hungry 

for the smallest abandon

of our sweet ethic

that tries so hard to remain

married.

46. Labor

She bent over dishtowels

brown against her teeth

holding her screams

holding the girl in her belly.

.

He held a stopwatch

clicking at time,

ballpeen hammers on brass.

.

Thirty seconds ate the earth

and the green in her blind eye

and her cervix was eaten by scorpions.

Thirty seconds ate the nails off her fingers

and pulled all the hair back into her head.

She vomited in the sink to make room.

.

He held the stopwatch

clicking at time,

dentist scraping eye teeth.

.

She suffocated on her cervix 

trying to claw into her womb

where the only new life in her body

scraped hard, digging to emerge

as a girl.

45. why horses run like the wind

I run late for a train past

one tall man kneeling to lick

mud from a puddle.

A Portuguese woman wonders,

que hora es, hija?

no sé, I mutter, 

folding myself over my knees, 

no sé tía

and cry all the way to France.

While

two Spaniards in black suits

argue with each other over who gets to 

fuck me                      

                                                            as if 

my oldest heart slices pages 

off of itself and

my hands tangle,

chewing each other up 

chewing each other up

for wanting the 

mud puddle man to be fed.

43. Inquest

(For TR, BB, & L)

.

Today I screamed 

for fear

it has been so long since

I have heard a cricket 

and I have never been given

flowers on Valentine’s Day.

My birthdays pass.

We used to be four

living hard on long tethers,

catastrophically heaving in

expanding universes,

mouthing off and 

fucking with boys’ brains and

loving their hearts

and eating ourselves alive.

We are now sparse

and exactly four directions,

only air between.

.

Today I screamed for fear

it has been so long since 

I have watched an evening age

in silence and I have never

ridden a motorcycle without a helmet.

I have never 

received a love letter from a man I love.

We used to carry three guitars

and Black Velvet bottles, wore

fedoras, Vasque boots

and smoked like gypsies

tripping on each others’ feet

and ubiquitous hilarity,

cursing in three languages

just to watch the moon rise.

The boys came and were afraid.

We used to heave the earth,

quake tremors pulsing through confinement.

Now we seep and trickle.

Now we test waters with a heel

holding a man’s hand,

suspicious that we need him.

We whisper through the 

telephone receivers 

to each other.

.

Today I screamed 

for fear

it has been so long since

I have led a man’s hand

and I have never seen the monarchs

migration route.

My birthdays pass.

We four cudgeled chastity,

fervently exuberant still

we were only miserable 

abundance trapped,

believing in the control of

climate by travel.

We thought love was effortless.

Now we are dense as

salt water

and deeper than oceans

of earth.

Now we will each seek the sound of crickets

and admit our fears,

gratefully letting them hold 

our hands.

.

We are sparse

and exactly four directions,

only evening air between.

42. Homesick

The sagebrush and tules miss me.

The cacti cry.

The mountains moan

huddled under white blankets

stained with blue blood and

ripped by treetops.

The dust has cried

until its own tears

have settled its dance.

The wind keens and 

howls across earth

trying to find me,

not finding me,

running east and south

searching the land

for me.

.

I am here,

I whisper–

here I am,

so far north.

The sun, tired of shining

upon my sadness,

climbs only a few feet

above monotonous spruce oceans

before settling back down.

Night is longer than the knife

edge of a sand dune

streaming off toward ribbon clouds.