drought

the mountain of de-stemmed kale piling
on karma countertop while two large pots of water
come to a boil
_______
the sheen/glisten of my forearms/tops of my hands as i
hoe the impossible clay-dried soil
around the tepary and edamame plants
in lookfar garden
_______
the first time someone (our visitor) says it:
drought
while digging potatoes in north garden
_______
suck on them til they turn clear emory explains
of the black jelly beans in the ziploc
and in his mouth
_______
the turquoise/sea green colors of mica’s
shredded/tied shirts
(land day special) layered on top
of each other
_______

guomi berries darien shows us
and we eat the ones that are starting to shrivel
as he explains they are the cultivated version
of autumn olives after which
i can’t stop saying guomi
for the rest of the night
_______

how we joke about slapstick comedy
(meaning – you make a weird joke about
how i look good in my place [as i wash dishes
at the sink] and then i get a stick
and slap you with it)
as the dust rises from the road as we walk
away from red earth land day
and the four wheeler whines past us going
in the other direction,
how the sky peaches and goldpinks
under veil cloud layers
_______
hottest it’s ever been in tucson
on this date in 21 years she says
of the 116 degrees the day was made of
_______
the smallness/softness/close-seekingness
of this shiny black cat curled and purring
in my lap as i write this in headlamp light
so i can watch the lightning flash/flicker in
through the windows

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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