Language shimmers with meaning.
Look, it’s waving a flag wildly.
Like the wind you’d feel but
could not catch.
Mesmerised, you’d gazed up to its
sedimentary layers, the antelope
canyon spectacle, a radiating beam
in tepid weather.
We are knotting and unknotting,
a rebirth. You dabbed upper
lip sweat, tucked in to steak
and beans, corn, guacomole.
What? I’m almost delirious.
Halfway up the steps, oh aren’t
we deluxe now? In the Southwest
Prompt: You’d be forgiven for thinking poetry is dense. Obscure stuff. So why bother right? I mean, if you’re uninitiated, then yes. Its riches are gathered up by only the initiated I guess. The likes of Emily Dickinson “spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise.” Yet the veil is thin. So see what you can gather up in Ada Limon’s “The Frontier of Never Leaving”. And try your damnest to join the ranks of the initiated. Heck, write a poem in response.
If the wound you cover is made of sheet metal
and iron gates left over from the junkyard of
of Forever Worried, and the school of Always Broken,
here, I have saved you a seat. If you have hidden your
outlawed books in your mattress and your outlawed
thoughts in your hands, here, I will give you refuge.
This is what I heard underneath it all, underneath and in the
beginning but now let’s move to Canada. I hear it’s nice and
they don’t kill each other as often. I can even forgive them for speaking
French. Really, not all of them speak French. But would I miss it?
If I move to Canada, and there’s no war in the Spring
I won’t miss Iowa, that’s for certain, but it’s the only thing.
The fields keep growing longer like a veil between us,
the mountains like sutures on the map, and yet they are
ours, the way mustard can be ours off the highway
and windmills in the deserts and roads, even roads. Barbed
wire between us, fences between us. The roadrunner has
run into the river and Misters, you do not care. Another puzzle
piece of my American map has unfolded. I am the only
thing that fits together here, in this frontier of Never Leaving.
Today, I am going to play the record of the revolution,
everybody is going to sing along and the more we turn it up,
the less the flag will wave over you and the more it will
become a swallowtail and migrate to our houses, the little ones
in the back, the ones with the lights in the window. Look!
You can see them now, opening their doors in the fog.