Hill Behind Finn’s House, Val Verde, January
How to get around it isn’t clear.
A thicket hedged across the road,
a high curve mass
Wind draws their tendrils tight.
How to get around them.
To the left, uphill,
to the right, the place
we used to be, where
tumbleweeds won’t tumble.
Earth and sky and thorny combs
that card them to each other.
You’re loose from your root,
hair caught in a knot at your nape.
Touch a tumbleweed, it springs back.
Tossed upon its thickest wisp,
a length of sisal twine
a fishnet glove
the air can wear.
How it blows
The wind that names
the tumbleweed, names its purpose,
calls it by the way it moves.
I didn’t know you had a cactus
now tattooed across your back.
I haven’t seen you naked in so long.
Copyright © 2016 Iris Cushing. Used with permission of the author.