In the stillness of the house
Uncertain echoes of past lives
Mingle in odd intervals of her muse
On life and its meanings,
Interlaced in the hollow sounds;
The forced memory of dead traditions.
No more coffee and TV,
Frittering to life the engines of dawn.
She tries to glimpse the house
A room full of mirrors
No point of view of heaven and earth
All faces new moons in gravity to her.
The husband buried in lawyers,
Interned her son in clay urns smashed to earth.
Did they watch her through
The banal conversations
The technology of gender
On buying guns and hunting trips?
Her body seems off limits to her
Uncontrollable, yet hostile to desire.
She could tell them tales of her father
Roaming the New Mexico hinterlands,
Poaching rattlesnakes, lynching Mexicans
Hearts on fire at dawns blood red sun.
The UFO alerts and surges of wild horses,
Strange nights along the concrete prairie
From Las Vegas to Los Alamos;
The dust swirls and crop circles.
To reconcile this perspective
Of a vast and shadowy human network
Come to view her self-persecution
On the crosses of domestication
She has fragmented into phantasms
She has opened the closet doors.
To see them eat locusts and wild honey,
And pound their children
Out of the stone they were turned on
From the millhouse of her ruin.
But that was not the affection she was looking for…