I am a mesa child,
and a mountain mama.
Boxelder Creek keeps
Christian constance
on my mind, 80 exits
away from fading
into faceless states
of white emotion.
Summer drowns me
humidly—lost, to
one great sweeping,
Irene pulled out all
the filth—filtered it
into the vacuum
of the upper atmosphere-
outer-space limits,
of skinny one-town horses
swishing their tails
blithely, in the back-
side of my mind,
still tracing mythic
California coastline cliffs,
as New Mexico mystics
steam chug water,
chill me out, hidden in
the prickled shadows
that leave notes for me
on the bedside table:
lies about love and war,
and drinking,
leave me strangled good
in the oven, presses
on my thighs, mounting
Appalachia, quickly
switch-back murder blade
wiped clean on my jeans,
and tossed, mechanically
grease stained
to the grey wood floor,
has a tilt. It is
a bit crooked,
like gin. It leads gulls
to painless suicides
in an old war song,
softly distorted lovely
on the shortwave radio
head waves dig the grave
gold pot at the end.
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