THE ATOMS SPEAK
Night of owls, dawn of
meadowlarks;
each a passage into each
other.
Distorted images bent in
heat.
Carrizozo sunset,
languished oasis.
Cattle moan in darkness;
mirage of two voices;
quiet juniper.
Cedar stalk the sky with
wrangled fingers.
Cactus juice; century
plants challenge ants.
Sudden sharpness, slow
haze;
smoke and sand in
movement.
Brittle mountains break
into mica slivers;
luminous signposts;
Picurís pottery
streaked by a black
trail of flames;
sacrifice of pine.
Altar of kiva stones and
clay;
Sangre de Cristo bless
and destroy.
Flash of rains, mirror
of oceans,
of lost races locked in
stagnate waters.
Fear of reptiles scared
by faces; strike in fear:
mutual weakness, mismatched
strengths,
desert aura, lava snake,
Tres Cerros,
glow of the crab-faced
moon.
Capitán in hiding,
coyotes hidden.
Red roses wave to
sparrows loose in white sand;
now a tension, a
thousand years stored in time,
front and back of one
now walking
side to side an endless
tension.
Scorpions' sting,
lightness of ladybugs,
wasps in hollows, flies
and flies on the last day
the cold snow melted
moments after it had fallen;
not even roses wilted.
--
C.S. Cholas
New Mexico, April 25, 1975
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