Trail dust

Leaving Maricopa

Driving to Tucson, I-10
tires could melt at any second,
gluing the car to the asphalt.
Around me, the dead are rising
from across the oranges, browns, purples, desert.
Zuni chiefs, from their cliff-side pueblos,
curse this foreigner cruising through their home,
top down and sweating like hell.
Dead cowboys, lost travelers,
Tom Mix, white as a ghost and his
double decapitation.
They vanish at the city limits,
falling back into their dust and sand.

by William Brent Wright

 "Prairie Magic" by Colleen Burner

Two poems

Noah's Coffee House on the River

I want to get up one midnight before the moon yawns,
and stars pull the clouds over their heads,
before dew polishes the grass seductive green,
or frost plays heavy metal in the meadow.
I want to be the first customer at Noah’s Coffee House,
pour my first cup of scalding black coffee,
and find the first line of a new poem in the vapors.
I want to see the first sailboat interrupt dawn
as it rocks past an ancient oil freighter
that’s barely piercing dingy green water.


Pureed Whiskey Shots at Dawn

I hurry out to the kitchen
to brew a brutal quart of coffee,
to sip while I wait.

I plan to be there to see the first customer
wipe the night from his eyes.

5:30 a.m.
I pour the scalding energy into my thermos
and drive down to The Place—
the restaurant where whiskey shots
lead the list of breakfast beverages on the menu,
followed by
    1 petite order of thick hickory smoked bacon
    2 lightly scrambled organic eggs
    1 slice of buttered Texas Toast
where hyacinth, caramel, and chestnut
puréed whiskey shots are served.

It’s the restaurant where Delbert
hisses orders through his gums,
and Jean Anne, his wife, wears safety goggles
so she can honor orders without routinely
wiping spit from her eyes. Matthew, their son,
audits the liquor and serves it in skinny shot glasses.
 
5:45 a.m.
I am pouring a third cup of coffee from my thermos
when the first customer arrives driving an
18-wheeler. She parks her rig on the sandy tract
behind the paved parking lot. Mack International
heaves, burps, and upchucks acid soot from silver pipes.
 
She reaches to the top of the cab and squeezes a horn
that sounds like an elephant in heat. She swabs her face
with what looks like cotton candy, and then polishes her lips.
 
She exits Mack and walks into The Place. I follow.
Delbert hollers, “Hey Jo Rose, your usual is ready.”
He brings her bacon, eggs, and Texas Toast.
Matthew serves her puréed bourbon whiskey.
 
6:00
The Place begins to live as customers file in,
wipe the night from their eyes,
and order the Jo Rose Special, and
I wonder if this is Resurrection Day.


by Mary Rogers-Grantham