I
Fire Burns Grass
On the third day of the wildfire she answers.
I press the ancient phone receiver to my head.
This phoneāso old I think Iām talking
to the dead sometimes. Talk to me. Talk to me.
She says, Remember when we changed the game?
Three fingers at her lips meant water.
My hand upturned, half-opened, stood for grass.
Her fist, bursting into fingers, meant flames.
Yesātalk to me.
The phone at my face like an oxygen mask.
But not the rules. We kept the rules the same.
(grass drinks water)
(water puts out fire)
(fire burns grass)
Will you have to leave your house?
She laughs at that. Her laugh: a match struck
in a rainstorm, impossible spark
of old longing inside me.
Outside my window,
the springtime is coming apart;
sheets of rain
clog the sewer with drowned cherry blossoms.
Are you still there?
Iām thirsty but I canāt reach the sink,
the phoneās umbilicus is already stretched taut. Outside,
a gust of wind tears a branch from the dogwood.
Oh, yes. Rooted to my spot.
Mobile
It seems itās not enough for us
to love the earth the way we loved, as infants,
a milky nipple. What the teacher meant
when he told his students, Carry water in a sieve!
No one could until, at cliffās edge, he showed themā
flung the metal basket into the Pacific.
But we donāt sink into the world like that.
We rise up from the earthās breast
and crane our necks over the grasses, distracted
by a glimpse of shiny things. You can see it
in the baby by eight months:
sheāll be nursing along in the garden of contentment
until some glint of motion snags her eye,
and the world not even named yetā
that blur of green is not yet
āflock of wild parakeets in northern coastal city,ā
the pink flash not yet classified
as āmusical mobile of plastic ponies,ā
a baby shower gift I could not bring myself to keep:
the music box rendered āThe Blue Danube Waltzā
as a series of electronic beeps
while the ponies rotated, trailing a squishy plastic smell
that reminded me variously of asthma attacks,
factory workers in China, and Barbie dolls.
I saw the real Blue Danube once,
muddy with rain in Vienna, a river
whose headwaters start before the Roman Empire
and run through two world wars,
bearing fascism and Freudian psychology
and schnitzel all downriver to pour into the Black Sea
of our seemingly endless need to keep playing with matches.
To see what will catch light. Iāve heard
the real āBlue Danubeā tooā
once, from a man sitting alone on the edge
of the stage that was the twentieth century,
plucking the notes of the waltz on a classical guitar
with such exquisite tension between the sweeping music
of the river and the tiny syncopated pattern
of dancing feet that at least one person
in the sparse and hurried lunch-hour audience
put down her cell phone and wept.
Magpies like shiny objects too. As do
starlings, blue jays, crows. Perhaps the commonality
persists in us like our desire for flight, the way
a line of music can persist
until someone fashions the memory
of a time those notes flooded the banks of our feelings
with a mechanical ghost of itself
that plays us at our plastic worst. When what we wanted
was the green breath of those first fields,
blown toward us by the moving shapes of horses.
Border
Things different over there
the words for them different
the things themselves
all the same
she put her flesh
in the mouth of a coyote
so that he would take her
a cross
to mark the place
where someone
died trying
two white sticks
the ghost of cactus
and the clouds
back and forth
over our heads
an edge of thinking
beyond which we donāt go
to save face
which is burning
the other country so close
one good arm
could break a window
On the Road to California
The eye thirsts for rest, the blood for s...