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From a sky with two moons
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Hagar and Sarah Run into Each Other in the Dressing Rooms at Macy’s
Hey, go get me another bra,
will you? This one’s tight. I need
a 38D, silk, raspberry.
Excuse me, I don’t work here.
What are you looking at me for, peeking like
a tom over the top of the door?
Your voice sounds familiar, like someone I knew long ago.
Stop staring! Oh wait,
is that you Hagar?
W’Allah. After all these years, Sarah. Look at you. You have aged, well.
Thank you, my dear. A few nips and tucks
did the trick. You look well too. Let me tell you
about my son. Isaac is a corporate lawyer on Wall
Street. He still talks of playing jacks
and pebbles with Ishmael. What a pity we didn’t live
closer – maybe none of this would have happened.
Since you asked, Ishmael’s hair
has grayed, but his skin is still
the color of our terracotta
desert, his eyes as blue
as the dog star. He manages
an oil refinery on the peninsula.
How nice. Children aside, I don’t know whether
to hug you or scratch your eyes out. Grudges
gain weight with time.
-
I have much to say to you too, Sarah. Sharing a man
seldom works, especially when he’s carrying on
with three start-up religions.Hey, where’s the clerk? Can you get me that 38D?
Sarah, you still think
you’re the boss. And hot.
Just like when you had Ibrahim
first, and all legal. But you were about
to get the boot til I showed
up, gave him a little hoochie
cootchie. And a son too.Hagar, after all these years, you’re still
an idiot. Abraham loved me, or he wouldn’t
have sent you away. He kept you around just long
enough to get my juices flowing again. And what are you
doing with that lace nightie anyway?New man, old story. But we have more
important things to discuss. Like how the world
has gone awry since these one-god
religions. Remember when I asked you
to team up, not let it happen? You wouldn’t cooperate,
and now look. What a mess.I couldn’t team up with you – I would have lost
Abraham. Still, I was always skeptical
of his one-god idea. I couldn’t see
what good would come. One god is so
limiting, can wreak so much more havoc.Exactly. No one wanted it – he paid off plenty.
Praying to many gods helped us separate
love from war, sun from moon, time
from troubles. Back then,
Ibrahim got us fighting –
divide and conquer,
the old strategy.
Which played
right into
this
downward
spiral
of one
god.Can you speak up? I can’t hear you through
this wall. Doesn’t matter. This is what I think —
the time of many gods was long ago.
We have hardened, become more frightened,
less capable. Now we need one big god.I can barely hear you. I said I can respect you
as a mother, but our power is limited, no matter
how vast our imaginations. But this one god thing
isn’t working. The best we can hope for
is no god. Many gods did work. Imagine
if the world still believed. What? I can’t hear you.from Road to Winnemucca
Purchase book from Last Word Books, Alibris or from me.
Instructions for Erasure
after Gordon Hirabayashi
Call the prison Honor Camp.
Locate it in the desert, near the base
of a mountain. Arrest issei, nisei,
even those with only one Japanese-American
great-grandparent. Charge them
with conscientious objecting,
immigration (!) violations. Imprison them
in barracks on concrete slabs that hold
the chill of too many nights. In desiccating
heat, make them build a road to the top
of the mountain with pick axes, shovels.
Force them to build the superintendent’s
house on a hill overlooking the barracks,
landscaping terracotta rocks into enduring
terraces. When a persistent and honorable
prisoner arrives – on his own accord – do not
let him cause trouble. Keep extra eyes on him,
watch for signals. Do this for years.
After the war, fill the prison with young men,
mostly black and brown. Keep the prison going
for decades. Eventually, close Honor Camp.
Demolish all buildings to their foundations,
bury any reminders. Repurpose the land
into a campground, horse corral, trailheads.
Bring back to honor the honorable prisoner,
whom a shrewd president apologized to,
40 years later. Build a kiosk with historical
photos and text, but away from the campground
where few will see it. Post a sign at the road
the honorable prisoner helped build. Attach
his name to the sign. Call it a recreation site.
(Honorable Mention, Lader Poetry of Witness Award,
North Carolina Poetry Society, 2025.)
At Dusk, Salmon Spawn
Chum know where home shines and the quest,
leave seas behind and roaming years.
Rise moon, spin filigrees of silver flesh.
Each fall they return, numbers small and pressed
to streams of birth they churn and veer.
Chum know where home shines and the quest.
Ancient cycles spawn but with the same zest?
Autumn rot of carcasses sears
rise moon, spin filigrees of silver flesh.
Fish the size of good men’s arms and chests
fight through snags and silt, I hear.
Chum know where home shines and the quest,
they rest and nest in still pools ever west
with great heaves strike shore weary.
Rise moon, spin filigrees of silver flesh.
Spawn, thrash and flop then silent, ever rest
providence for loam, beaver and deer.
Chum know where home shines and the quest,
rise moon, spin filigrees of silver flesh.
(Published in I Sing the Salmon Home anthology, Rena Priest, ed., Empty Bowl Press. Winner of the 2024 Washington State Book Award for Best Poetry Anthology.)
Articles
The Echo, Black Hills Audubon Newsletter, July 2024
The Echo, Black Hills Audubon Newsletter, July 2024
Photo by Jessica Ryan