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My Moses

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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)

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This poem originally appeared in the July/August 2008 issue of Poetry magazine

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My Moses

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