Words as Seeds
I heard a poet say she went to Mexico
and returned with four
I pictured these as crisp, earthy
heads of lettuce, which she declared
when she crossed the border,
green leaves sprouting in fertile musing rows.
I crossed the border at Algodones
but unearthed no poems of my own.
Homeward, I disclosed only
the peacock feathered earrings
I haggled for with a boy in mirrored sunglasses.
On the return flight I sprained my ankle
falling from the final yawning step
the airplane laid on waiting tarmac;
it left me vivid with contused tones--
bright changing shapes,
like the flock of nestled warblers
that perched in persimmon trees
beside the airport terminal.
Perhaps my poems were part
of those fading bruises,
they held a certain dark
their colors rose and fell
like the heart of a
declaring the faces of
the border patrol in white SUV’s,
and the natives laboring in lettuce fields,
dropping their words as seeds
into the loamy rows.