The cold Earth is opening.
The desert is infected.
Starving cacti throb with hunger;
the land sweats poverty through
cracks in the street.
Ants are in a glass jar.
I gather them,
preach to them;
let them pray in the hot sun.
Then, I kneel as one of
God’s knights
and slaughter each with a slow dime.
Money is priceless.
So is time.
The desert is infected.
As sincerely,
as satisfied
as a secret lady can be.
It is nearly one miracle.
A passion!
A failed art with reflection;
manner.
A poor woman ordinarily has little shame,
but she comes with
red knuckles
and
sensible shoes.
She holds secret meetings
with passionate things.
Strawberries.
Wine.
Artists. A learned taste.
A hushed taste for her.
I see women walk over her. In stiletto’s.
Teal designer hand bags dangling
from rich, white chocolate
perfection.
Proper uniform.
What a proper tragedy!
Weeds are sleeping. High Noon. The Desert opens its dry mouth.
Legs wobble over loose gravel, barely stirring the lethargic,
thirsty Earth.
The arid land has an asphalt tongue. I sit on it.
I melt to it.
A plastic shadow. Dried up. Destroyed
by the sun. Liquidated
by a watching light.
Red bugs have armor. Guardian’s of flight. Protection
from the land.
Turtles carry
shields,
and teeth. I evaporate.
An old actor rocks on a blue porch. He doesn’t
know the desert like I do. Never has sunk in its smoldering
August sand or been whipped by flaming winds.
He rocks.
Protected by shadows that do not melt, shadows
that create the desert.
He rocks.
Whiskey in hand.
He rocks.
I evaporate. Into the weeds.
To sleep.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 