Red flesh and yellow seed.
Every elephant bears something bright and private,
touches trunk to tail to trunk to thin trail
of grayish exhaust.
San Joaquin. I have difficulty
guarding my senses
of scale and boundary.
Asleep beside me,
you missed the almond grove of eyes.
Fresno knows the contents of our cupboards
better than you or I understand ourselves
as organs and fuel.
The mountains are not mountains,
but walls of a conduit.
The highway not a highway, but a manic spine.
Movable hive cities, silver wheels
of irrigation, spurting.
One field glitters plastically,
tied with tinsel to ward off the birds
who swoop in unison like flags on a baton
moved by huge, invisible hands.
Abby Gambrel loves Milwaukee despite and because of its seasons. She teaches English and Creative Writing at Cardinal Stritch University.
TribulationTheMoth
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