On a field of desert poppies
I learned to watch
for the finer forms:
cholla spines spilling
from a body all
joints, or barrel cactus shin-
deep, wild hyacinth twined
among wicked thorns.
Who but the buzzards
truly survey the land?
Who but the scythe-winged
spirits know the old,
old blade that is death?
This afternoon
that curved shadow caught
my heel, or so
I thought. I bent
to find an antler, three-pronged
and bleached among the sulfur
blooms. What I want
to say is that I left
the sharp prize after measuring its heft.
What I think
is that one sacrifice across a plain
of seasonal brilliance is enough.
But I faltered
under the gaze of those dark birds,
under the spell
of chicory and mesquite.
Kneeling, I clasped the antler:
rising, I crossed back
to the treacherous edge
of that beautiful, transient field.
Pocked
then sealed
the under-
ground wombs
of Sonoran bees
with names like
Diadosia ronconis &
Melissodes paucipuncta
are at a loss
for profit
That is there is
no honey &
no hive —
a thousand species
solitary
except that ritual
that flower-mad dance
that risk of sting
on sweet sting
& in a desert
in Israel
ground-dwelling bees
milk
the nectar from
rich blooms
A thousand
species there
too
& like our
Tumacacori valley
also a wall
to keep a people
out —
& also too high
for the low-flying bees
to cross
or cross-fertilize
the crops
grown south
to raise
mad profits
and feed
madder mouths
& how’s that
for fertile
justice
1.
Unless the rose
is thornless, the stem wine-
bottle smooth & burgundy—a scion singing
pinot noir
cabernet
Unless from that stem
the leaves fall like tendrils, laced & lancelot
Unless the blooms are
champagne
double clustered —
heavy in their own delight
and yours?
That is a rose worth craving
& planting
in an Arizona
mining camp circa 1855
The Chinese rose
dug deep by a Scottish bride is Tombstone
(the outlaw town of the single
thornless tree in a desert
otherwise drunk with thorns)
2.
Rather: desert
Drunk
with acacias
that weave arroyos into wicked paths
that cluster like outlaws
Before the moon sleeps
with its lover
Cereus
I want to memorize their names
winter thorn
sweet acacia
river wattle
guajillo
cat claw
tésota
mimosa
prickly Moses
white thorn
camel thorn
desert carpet
dead finish
repeat
3.
Unless the rose is thornless
my silver-
beaked clippers would not sing
the sheering
song—preserve the winter
sprig
captured from neighbor’s yard—
of full-moon night & leaves glossy
if not glowing
Does this merlot branch reach
back to the bride’s own bouquet?
Romantic
the thought
though untrue
Unless the thorn stems
from acacia
& the spindle-tipped trellis
craves the Scottish cluster
of her heart wine-tinged & blooming
&
repeat
Spooky, my wife says. They know my secrets.
This morning, as the light scratches
across the keyboard, I browse the homepage
and find my own glittering recommendations: cherry-
handled rose pruners, their glossy alloy beaks
spring-tuned; new music by the Silos, a Top 10
on Dan Steely’s alt-college country rock list;
and the books, the wonderful unfathomable books—
three or three-thousand sensuously bound
classics of love, mystery, and safe passage
into Sonora, Mexico. I hover above
No. 1,897,615: Click here to purchase.
Why not?
Even the Pinacate Press in Lukeville, Arizona
knows its wares are sung to me, the guy idling
eagerly outside Sonoyta’s port-of-entry,
travel guide buried in the trunk, the air burning
with recommendations.