after “Solar Wind” by Larissa Szporluk

I have never known who to pray to.
Instead, I scribble illegible poems
on legal pad after legal pad.

The waned moon sharp as a cat’s claw in the sky.

Mars a glowing coal over the shoulder
of the Douglas firs.

Erratic wind gusts a cloying honeysuckle scent.

From somewhere below the hillside, a struck match,
maniacal laughter.

I should have deleted your contact info,
planted a vegetable garden,
carrots at the very least.

A person can die of indecision,
a rock overgrown by weeds,
carried off by the tide.

The mulch in my fenced yard
is dark with damp.
It can’t erase my poems’ ink.
It can’t erase

what has already happened,
gulls chasing the sunset,
blown over trash cans,

or the midnight wrong numbers
from someone whose tattoos
you’ve memorized.
You recite them
alphabetically
in your sleep.

I am anchored in this place.
Only my sails flap.

I don’t know what else
colors your tongue.
If prayer exists.

I grow needles so I can drop them.

©

Lana Hechtman Ayers manages three small presses in a town of more cows than people. Visit her online at LanaAyers.com.