She pronounces Chama the name of the milky¹ green river
with a richness in the ch I cannot muster², puts a hard d
on the end of her ands. anD. anD. anD. Like the river
she is asking to be endless anD shifting. To stream.
I’d scouted³ the knoll⁴ of oaks for rattlers, being beyond the bounds
of Coverage⁵ having no means to learn their habits.
So I lay down with her on the ground. Their ground. AnD
I willed to forget the cares of my later-in-life job search. Job.
Which is also Job, a man in the Bible. Which is a book.
The oaks of the knoll were leaning into the Chama like girls
washing their hair in basins. I thought of EB shampooing Lota,
of Frost’s birches, of Plath’s Wych elms which I’d like to have
googled. Did snakes favor oak knolls⁶? Did Georgia O’Keeffe worry
about health insurance costs in Abiquiú? AnD beside me my love
streaming, her poodles distantly nosing the chamisa. Standards.
I thought I had them. Put art at the front of the queue
wych is different from quiú. AnD now this. Biblical
the proportions of this breaking-back-into-a-country-I’d-
locked-myself-out-of phase. Was it scenic⁷? I liked
the pachysandra, branches of oak taking all that space
from the sky. But then everybody disappeared to their offices.
Three times I wrote work work work when woke
was what I wanted to write.
Miniature is the acorn⁸
I fingered in the soft flour-sack pocket of my jeans.
Acorn smaller than East Coast or indeed Irish Oak varieties
wych she handed me anD how hungrily I pocketed its little body.