the hummingbird, for instance, in the high tunnel

massive congregation of flies
gathered on karma privy window screen
they must be i think in a voice similar
to the one my mom uses when she talks to herself
coming in from somewhere
_______
in the hoophouse we lower the
orange bells (peppers) down through
the mulch nests into the holes we’ve dug
through the crusty top layer to the softer
clay/sand mix below
_______

there are some things that elicit the stillness and attention
of an entire group of people
the hummingbird, for instance, in the high tunnel
_______
the satisfaction of slicing
(with the dough scraper
also called pastry knife in my book)
through the roll/swirl of dough
covered in sweet butter cinnamon toasted pecan mix
and the even sweeter satisfaction of
placing the cinnamon spirals out on a teal plate
along with the rest of dinner
(which was cooked to loud club/pop/electronica)
on the butcher block
_______
wanna come to my room sometime
i joke and watch the cockroaches
_______

how i usually try to plug my nose and
not look at the strung up bodies
hung in the walk in as the last blood drips slow
and thick off
but this time (after hearing
how if the brakes worked, she wouldn’t have been hit,
after hearing about how her back legs were broken through,
and how she was still alive when joe and em got there
but joe brought a knife)
i take the bright red (that will fade to brown
in the next few days) body in
and breathe
though i will never be accustomed
to being in such proximity to a body
whose head and skin and fore-legs
are gone
_______

something eerie i try to explain the
cold pink swath stretched across the sky
where the cloud blanket doesn’t quite reach the horizon

and on a separate note – how that color
seems stolen from late fall taos sky
where i thought the sacred mountain
was buoying me (and perhaps she was)
but in the end (though there are no ends)
she ran ground me up
into a world where panic lived on a yak ranch
in a mountain valley in colorado,
where panic could not be carried away even in
the swift currents of the rio grande,
where panic became a new way of saying
i love you but words aren’t words at all anyway,
especially when
they are spoken by someone who was
offset from her body

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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