For Abbie, because I said I would write it
First night of wood smoke.
Acequia flows
first since
we got here.
First time picking trash out of the acequia channel
amidst old rocks
placed by dead hands.
All the places water runs from
under barbed wire below the roads
past all the vicious dogs in this place—
I’ve lived such a gentle life
I don’t even know how to spell
vicious.
Barbed wire
twisted together
handwork too—
and every few years a hole appears—
they add another strand.
Just a tangled mess
after a hundred years
is it for keeping people out,
or keeping cows in,
who low, look for grass
where there is none.
Is it to keep us out that it is strung
across almost every place?
I see no sign saying this way or another
but a man was shot
just a hundred feet down street
from where this acequia flows
under barbe wire.
I open the wire gate
go through at the end
of a quiet road I found
past wild roses flaming blood-red, rose-hip heavy—
At least nature’s barriers produce seeds, and fruit.
And along rio chiquito
are six old apple trees
heaps of bear sign all around.
Tweet
Share