Goodbye at Monument Rocks, and: If You Draw Rightly on a Wound, It Might Righten

Goodbye at Monument Rocks

Layer on layer these did not growSo much as gradually remain. Eyeless river, longLost, cut these spires from the chalks just so,Left embrasures like portals for travelers in a song,              Cut turret, cut skyline              Of limestone, cut shrine              Hemmed like my margin's line.

Tumbleweed hesitates, hooked on a cow patty'sCrushed rose of coffee. Rock a variation on ginger.Crow-foot clumps of purple gayfeather, aka blazingStar, indicative of overgrazing. Little visions.              Clam, sharktooth, lily crinoid,              Ram's-horn ammonoid—              Cliff faces that keep a lizard employed.

Nothing participates, Ruth says, in eitherArrival or departure. All in both. Shape in shapeThe sea's embedded notes, ghost neitherGone nor near, but gotten very near, unerased—              But not for us a place to dally—              Not to miss, for sure—but to rally              A solitude to a soul's tally.

And when we leave them in the rearview mirrorShe murmurs Clear as a dream, she almostSingsongs it, on her mind her father'sCrackling speech at her goodbye, his close              Breath through the phone,              His mounting howl, the tone              Like wind through dusty stones.

If You Draw Rightly on a Wound, It Might Righten

And so? And so they drive over arid floorsOf long-departed seas, and up with the land's rampOff the continental shield. They witness the muralOf mountains emerge, and they span the North Platte              Near the train-bridge trusses,              Career in the wind-boom of trucks              Through basin, past bluff—

Straight through? No, no, they stop at a tattooist's hut.What for? Why, to mark themselves for themselves.Is this their first? Yes, and they—What is it of?He gets a barn-swallow. She her twin brother's initials.              Where? His shoulder, her ankle. And what              Do they mean? So many questions! I don't know, but              Ink as blue as bruises is a kind of trust

Sealed and seen. And does it hurt?Of course. It seeps with dewdrops of blood—Why did they do it? For armor? For charm? Maybe certainPain is meditative. Are they pleased? Well, they have a lengthy hug …              And after that? They drive till they arrive              At the city. Soft sky, trees mighty,              Busy bridges festooning the night.