Pulp an orange peel sky
to pure madness. There’s melody,
you wailing on the harmonica
and me on the spoons, the clattered sounds
make the sun shake.
You sing me songs of ancient wars
as we ride like it’s always toward,
to what we haven’t figured out yet.
We sweeten our tongues with agave nectar
but it doesn’t keep me from swearing so much,
my mother would say, what man
will want you with a mouth like that.
We’re in a roadside cantina
between two Ponderosa pines
drinking tequila from tin cups
and scattering feed for the chickens.
I think about these chickens, about soft necks
slit and fresh eggs uncracked, and about the sky
pressing its blue thumb on us. It sucks the air
out of this field. As if in answer, a thunderclap
chars all that blueness, a gesture against impossibility.
Suddenly these chickens, the tequila, are perfect.
It’s true, the world can’t help
but reveal itself to us.
Red and white feathers
and ripped open sky.
About the author
Melissa Carroll learned samba from a gorgeous Brazilian bartender in his Buzios apartment, slept in an Australian cattle field, and once found a $50…Read the full bio
Issue 12 · June 2011
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