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PORTRAIT OF A LOST LAND
Private Notes
Private Notes
Notes
A forgotten field on a reservation where cattle once choked
on cheat grass, it holds mouthfuls of memories turned dust,
the whys still echoing. Heavy in its lonesome, the day drags
its heels over rock-hewn soil, this ancient riverbed of bones,
its secrets crumbling. In the air a vacancy of miles looms
wide over this vast shrub-steppe turned orchard—the hull
of the valley abloom with hops, barley, junk cars. Barren
foothills undress the dawn, while proud stalks of field corn
huddle together like grass warriors donned in headdresses
of gold. Farmers talk shop—silage, water rights, the price
of grain—make deals in a cafe and roll dice for breakfast.
My own farmer takes his turn, says I haven't had to pay yet.
I roll five fours and win a free steak and eggs. I rarely play
this game. I'm a lone woman among men who don't read
poetry; to them poetry is a productive heifer, a good crop
yield, a barn full of hay—the open land their paper, a plow
their pen. And their words need no translation. Boredom,
acres of it, could turn a good horse crazy. I feed stray dogs,
take walks, take notes, and take burning-water to Thunder,
a pot-marked native resigned to a gutted-out travel trailer.
Clouds stretch out, tangle in blue, and the sun bleeds
in its pocket of sky, blood on pale hands, of fattened cattle,
herded to slaughter, blood of battles won, battles lost, and
warriors, whose faint drum beats sound in the distant night.
Comments
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poetry; to them poetry is a productive heifer, a good cropyield, a barn full of hay—the open land their paper, a plowtheir pen. And their words need no translation.
I love this. My grandfather was a farmer and this reminds me so much of him. I remember reciting poetry to him as a little girl and this is pretty much what his reaction was. Thank you for sharing this wonderful work. -
I can really see what you are talking about and your poetry description is magnificent.