Blue  

Marcia McCusker

The wind turned foolish and lost its way
the desert muted its prickly tongue

mourning doves hitchhike from her porch
blue chairs claim linear space
invite the shadow of twisted yellow creosote
into their laps and check their watches

past and present history arrives in sunglasses
from behind halos of cholla
a mirage collecting itself
that doesn’t yet know that it’s a tear
or its percentage of salt

hold fire to sage and stoke it with your lungs
an ember will breathe its very first breath
smoke will speak its own liquid memory

uncrumple words from your back pocket begin your exhaling of her

she will tilt her head
backstroke the Milky Way
feed to you what she nets with silver hair
rock you with the motherease of fossils.