Flight

Just as our flight takes off,

I wonder with a jolt of panic

If I have left enough food for the cat

I no longer have, the one who

Years ago fell asleep in the dryer

On top of a pile of clothes

Right before I closed the door

To warm them one more time.

It is always moments like this

When my subconscious chooses to remind me

In a visceral way that it is too late,

And I have made a fatal mistake.

My Dad Shot a Woodchuck.

You pulled the curtain back on my window,
Opened the glass, and rested your shotgun on the ledge
Before the long shadow of the house had lifted, 
Along with the dew, from the back yard.

It was a summer morning. I lay sleeping,
Yet a teenager, needing extra of everything,
When the woodchuck trundled into the garden, 
Assuming that we all lay fast asleep, as I did--

Until the violent crack that ended him
And made me wake up mid-scream 
To your infectious cackling.
Unable to help myself, I am laughing,

Then and now, remembering how you and I
Were really children at the same time. 

Sunday Morning Run

My feet meet the salted shoulder of the road

Before my mind has considered where we are going,

Oblique November sunrays slicing sideways

Through the red and yellow leaves remaining,

As if the stained glass windows in the cathedral

Of the morning have been half removed,

In need of restoring,

And light is pouring in, unmoored.

All else is silhouette, hushed as if waiting

For the Host. Meanwhile my feet have veered

From concrete onto dirt, following the road

At a remove I feel more connected to.

The paths my ancestors wore that became roads

Still exist-- and not just human. I become

Each animal of prey, hugging its body close to the earth,

Escaping through quick subterfuge.

The trees have filtered this strange light

Through their thousand ungloved fingers

Since long before human eye or art

Imposed on them such leaden images.

We are going the way that all mortal things must go--
Haunted to the grave by the eternity in our bones.

Outside Loretto Chapel

In the empty spaces between the pale adobe faces

Of buildings, chile ristras drying in bunches in doorways

Lift on the breeze that, on the twisted back of the evening,

Carries an ancient lament across the desert.

After the wedding party, led by a mariachi band

Up a sandstone staircase, falls asleep in white sheets,

The land recalls the rhythms of a thousand forgotten languages 

Pressed by weary feet into its surface.

The dry aged hand of the wind with a hundred whistling names (all forgotten) — stops

To remember all the tears it has collected in its palm, 

And once a year returns them to those who stop here now,

Strange tongues opening to catch the drops.