I’m in the other room
extending my ear for the rhythm
of your fish-gasps. Sister
softens the ice on your lips.
As the first drop spawns
a river on the floor-glides
a calm stretch.
When you think no one listens,
worms dress in their best segments,
make a list of your delicacies.
After the Myth Retold in the Kitchen
Butter in the pan wheeled-
circled the cemetery, their lights tied
to each other like elephants’ tails;
the graveyard for scattered bones.
While the rain-night carved
the cars’ breath, the stove’s fire
my breath too.
The yellow still rounded the pan,
and my holey spoon scooped
dug for forget.
Boulder Ridge on Fire
You knew flame would come
at the brim
where lichens first flaked
from limbs in their downward
And here, on the carnival street,
Tezcactlipoca* dancers donning masks
with obsidian orbs, turquoise foreheads, reflecting-
soaked hillsides unctuous torsos rage gut burn down
spread of ash laden corn
sifted off the first knuckle
introspective noses held close to the curb
for a smell of the yellow brick road
in smolder gray
plenty of cameras mirrors with bright
are we positive
in smoked mirrors
the back palm clearing cheeks
* In Aztec mythology, he is the Lord of Smoking Mirrors, purveyor of chaos.
Brian Dickson balances his time between three realms of education with tutoring, farming kindergarteners, and teaching in the cyberworld. He enjoys spending time riding his bike to work and around Denver cultivating an awareness of things around him.
“Actually, there haven’t been many front porches in my lifetime, but I remember a dirt porch on a farm where I used to work during high school. This sacred place (if I may be so bold) is where you could never quite enter in the house because you had to recall the day’s work, the alfalfa fields, the hay bails, the plows, the heifers, and always the compacted basketball court. Of course there is some nostalgia-narratives arose from the june bugs, from the Natural Light, and the tabbies rolling in from a prowl.
“What I have now is a small porch in Denver overlooking an alley. The alley light and I have accepted our share of the loss; loss not necessarily good or bad, but just is, as you attempt to search for a way to blend into the landscape.”