My Mother is Buried
My mother is buried on wind-swept
high-ground in a tiny ignored
The grass-spare plots are surrounded
by immaculate plowed fields
that never see a crop.
Every month I buy artificial flowers
at Wal-Mart and stuff them
into a cone filled with green
I get on my knees and pull weeds
away from the base of the tombstone.
Usually, I set up a lawn-chair and read
As far as I know she never read poetry
in her entire life, but she did
read the Bible so I always include a few
Mostly though, the poetry is for myself
hoping that somehow that is okay.
Lately I’ve been reading her Blake.
Sometimes I read Herbert or Hopkins
thinking that maybe she would like
If I am there late in the day I usually get
drunk and have to sleep awhile before
I drive home.
One warm summer night, last July, I fell asleep
(passed out) and woke up at three a.m.
to a gray fox trying to eat the yellow
and blue plastic flowers.
Sky over Indian Hills
Silk-screened pink sky tucks behind
the four mesas, the
four of them a worm-hole to the west, and
Comanches, only a hundred years gone.
I lean against oak trees with purple-brown
leaves, some falling like dead dark
snow, while my heels dig
into the sand of an overgrown peanut field.
Sky darkens but still is dominant,
the earth a postcard. Fleeting memory is a
plaything of the infinite and soon the stars will
laugh at the tiny trees and miniature creek.
Hills darken and are gone, pink gone too,
everything consumed by hungry time
I sit long into the night,
coyotes in the distance,
leaves rattling in the woods.
I think that means birds but it might mean
I go back to the cabin that I have left well
lit, the brightness reminding me that I am
alive and important. Just a ruse really.
I know that in the morning the sky will
be blue and the Indian hills will
be the focus of the sun.