Slow Erosion

 

Katey F​underburgh

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Drove through a fog so thick I remembered who I am.

Storm parting the valley with both hands

dissipates like strangers.

 

Buena Vista is red bedrock.

The rain leaves veins of sand in its wake.

My Jeep radiates a smell like hail and milk.

Nora Jones from my portable speaker.

 

Sage brush, my head out the car window, a skirt with a slit up the thigh, a sunburn.

Bottle of antibiotics for the dog bite, three stitches.

                                                                                                  The first human artifact was a healed femur. 

                                                                                                  The way to keep soil from falling away:                                                                                                                native grasses. I have

 

a scar on the back of my left earlobe that I cannot see without a mirror or someone else

to tell me that it’s there. We have

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wildfire smoke.

Tin cups of dark red wine.

Crooked tent stakes.

Time. I have

no heart for this. Luzon Dove

                                                          is born with a red stain of feathers on its chest.

                                                          I shape its name with my tongue.

 

Buena Vista is red bedrock but the moon rises full and yellow over a fire I build with my hands.

Come away // with me

Wine on the pads of my fingers, on my cheeks.

Ash weightless in the threads of my sweater. The sun

                                                                                                    breaks down its lasso, I

                                                                                                    drop my head to your thighs. I have

a travel kit of paints and brushes.

Creek water in a jar.

Watercolors down a spine of paper.

Scar like a shred of moon. Luzon Doves

                                                                            nest in the undergrowth.

                                                                            The dog did not mean to bare teeth. It’s the living

birds who cry.

Paper trees.

 

Buena Vista is red bedrock.

The sand is warm so I bare my shins.

What requires someone else to tend—

The yellow grass grows // knee-high

I burn unevenly. The land

                                                  splits. Becomes a bowl becomes a palm of deep blue.

                                                  Luzon Dove quivers, arcs its neck.

                                                  Glints purple in certain light.

                                                  Almost gone means not yet.

                                                                                                      I put my face in the dog’s face.

                                                                                                      I think I want you to take your time.

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