backyard weeds & flowers
of April. Headless dandelions with sweet quill greens,
chives spiking through a broken pot.
Garlic tops tassel from the wintered patch,
light like feathers, with a light taste.
Chervil, hidden in the rock garden,
under the dauntless sorrel
sorrel, so sour,
softened by chervil’s licorice lace.
Violets everywhere, reigning purple,
divine jewels in the salad crown—
I put a white one in the center,
taste the earth’s promise.
I know a buffalo, this buffalo
I smell, his body standing close,
a cowbird perched atop his towered back
just so, grubbing bugs. He’s heaving,
his scat’s not right, there’s blood.
A second shot from my Henry rifle
rends his chest, a bone dangles
from this 2,000 pounds of thunder,
weaving through prairie gulches
for water to stave the thirst, for mud
to staunch the bullet hole.
Two days galloping, a storm gallop,
but my pinto has closed on him.
He smells the pony, hears the spur jangle.
My guts drag. I can’t stop
With my good hoof I X this spot.
Myself I measure
I must remain
When the cowboy
comes for me
I will gore him
in the throat.
The horn will leave
his neck and pierce his ear.