Three Po­ems

For Martha, last pas­sen­ger pi­geon

Prairie Fire - - TABLE OF CONTENTS -

Ce­ramic Mary, reck­less con­va­les­cent

on my bed­side ta­ble, shows me her hands

(dirt in the nail beds).

Coy­ote creeps to my back­door with men

in cars, ris­ing sea lev­els, sink­ing boats.

I was a coy­ote once and lonely,

know he wor­ships at the church of Martha—

queen of lost, found.

Prayer: please let these be the bits of for­mer

lives we re­mem­ber,

Lov­ing Martha

bridge that you are.

Mary: keep your hands to your­self

and your heart in its jacket.

No more mir­a­cles

at least not the ag­gres­sive kind.

Those bright lights don’t in­spire.

They ar­rest chil­dren in shad­ows

with rocks and causes.

Na­ture is whim­per­ing at my back­door

my rage ready to be stuffed and mounted

so it can join the Smith­so­nian queue.

I am suf­fer­ing

with the high panic of a shy an­i­mal

(we shoot our mes­sen­gers).

The graf­fiti on my cel­lu­lar walls reads

still­ness fear

while the gingko tree drops her leaves all at once

and a whole school of cap­tive bluefin tuna snap

their necks

star­tled by a bright light.

Lov­ing Martha, teach us to quell our­selves

bridge that you are.

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