I Believe This is the Home of Georgia O'Keeffe

88 the minnesota review Joyce Savre I Believe This is the Home of Georgia O'Keeffe all is exposed all there is you think there is more there is none the vacancy is in your mind her rooms are full you don't see the patina inside bones on sand jut out like death I don't want such emptiness to fill my vision you have no vision you rely on periphery there is no periphery it is an invention of language only I see adobe and bones red clay and cracked soil the mountain is dead on center built around me a dry tomb with pressure to preserve the dead savre 89 bones like biscuits left is the sun the bone is a window the sand is a wall around that window sand the color of tongue life here tough as leather I taste nothing in my sleep but close my eyes and see everything a dried beetle dusty skimming across the sand it reels from being pinned expands wings arches its back comes back to self covering the landscape as far as one corner of the eye to the other none of it is for you no one told you to fall in love with your father you did it because you fear death no one told you death tastes like a biscuit 90 the minnesota review she sits straight on the stone looking out listening to the silence of sand she fears we might believe that vision is seeing she lives in adobe her view is adobe her "children" speak adobe she tells adobe jokes wears adobe like a favorite suit tailored sit down look out the window see what you think see what there is there is more already ...