When Will We Ache Less
Michelle Peñaloza
from a desert in Nevada a man launches flowers
into space
just now I thought: why when you are closer
am I more lonely?
(the you
could be anyone)
maybe distance is what I equate with love
you are away and I am alone with the bullfrogs
and crickets and raccoons
that pull up the new sod like carpet
their child fingers searching for
grubs in moonlight
elsewhere white men chant
you will not replace us
why is being born white
in America not enough?
above me the geese form haphazard
V V
V floating over the house
loose victories each twilight
paraded from one sewage pond
to the other across town
they don’t leave the valley for winter
~
this world and what comes from our garden is too much
abundance is a burden of responsibility
this rash of tomatoes appears and reappears
with so little effort with so little to do with me
what is it like to be everywhere
to be seen and heard and known and believed
with so little effort with so little to do with you
~
I collect facts
facts are marbles in my mouth
how to hold each one how to keep
how to speak how to scream with so much to contain
my mouth grows bigger and bigger
butcher birds hold their prey
to dismember they cacti their knife and larder
26 young Nigerian women
were fished from the Mediterranean and dried as headlines
and disappeared again
bullets shot from an AR-15 move through bodies
like boats exits wounds the size of oranges
hyenas eat ghosts that wander the streets
they eat the bones the butchers’ sons and sons and sons
feed them from their hands
someone found a grasshopper stuck
among van Gogh’s olive trees trapped 128 years
~
dragonflies hover over the kiddie pool we soak in to beat the heat
thrips burnish a thousand holes into a row of bright green leaves
the scuttle of skinks along the fence line sings feline a rolodex of r’s
a raccoon just made
carcass splayed across the road
the cattle wires come alive with feathered gargoyles
spread wings follow each speeding car
every hour more wings sky-full
coast on warm carrion-wind
I could measure the days this way
name after name after name
the raccoon a meat balloon fur crumple
disappearing
disappearing
Originally published in Moss: Volume Four.
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