Kansas

In 1980 I flew through Iowa corn and
felt the hardscrabble pull of Nebraska.
I missed Kansas on the way to the new world
When Colorado and New Mexico appeared,
our Midwest Kelly green faded
to chromium oxide green agave,
jumping cholla, prickly pear cactus
tugging at my thin skin.

Kansas was county fairs, husky
farmer’s markets, wildflowers,
your trees lifted away,
a hot air balloon festival.
Now kelp forests reach up
from under the Pacific Ocean,
tugging the sky, as you tug in
the lobster traps.

[RK, 4/22/21]


Lullaby

I’ve seen that moon in a bucket
glowing like dying lightning bugs.

Steam rises as moon light
boils away the water.

You would say my imagination
creates a false narrative.

Yet the moon is melting a hole,
in the bucket, grass, mantle, the Earth.

[RK, 4/21/21]


Sea Change 2

butterflies, mosquitoes, and birds
shelter in the hurricane’s swirl
blended with salt water and debris
everything is weightless and identical

[RK, 4/21/21]

Offering

the rock tumbler takes away the edges
until there is nothing left to burn

[RK, 4/21/21]

Quench

bottled, filtered, reverse osmosis water
is good enough for tickweed and mice

you want chandeliers of salt water taffy
and perfect evening tree frog melodies

dew, honeydew, and homilies
stitched onto linen samplers

houses need water coming in, but
houses also need water going out

[RK, 4/21/21]