Poetry

Walking into Winter

Death is opening the paper hearts of the milkweed, unclasping hands that held their secret all summer. Coated and mittened against November-cold, I ease along a hillside path and listen to the rustle and sift, the small talk of tall stalks in the wind:   they are shaking out their…

No Animal Afterlife

See how wholly they open to us in death, to the moon, to the red elm scabbed with mites. —Bruce Snider Of course you are imagining an afterlife for roadkill, but have you ever slowed or even stopped to look closely at a raccoon’s teeth buried in tar to the gums?

Pinon Time

And he walks all day with his family, up into the hills, for it is the time after the agave hearts and screwbeans, before the rabbit drive. And they camp in the piñon groves. His boy looks for kindling while he chooses a ready tree.