POEM
My Moses
Big Jack and his walking stick
live on the ridge. Navajo
orphan kids dance for him,
bobcat urine's in the weeds,
the shotgun barrel's up his sleeve,
a Persian coin is on the wind.
The Chinese Mountains smell the moon
and arch their backs. I tell him, Jack,
there's times I wish I was living in
canvas France, the old west,
a picture book, the Sea of
Tranquility, or even in
the den near the hot spring.
He says, kid, to hell with
phantom limbs; spring is a verb,
a wish is a wash, a walking stick
is a gottdam wing.
Source: Poetry (July/August 2008).
This poem originally appeared in the July/August 2008 issue of Poetry.
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Videlock often writes about nature, she lives in Colorado's Western Hills with her husband . . . MORE »
