Vallejos tumbled and broke:
All uproarious, none still --
The father sipped sour wine
From between floating quarters;
The mother girded day sweat
Around her waist, and bit sidewalks;
The son believed in the crunch
Of bird bone under molars,
And the sacred power of divots,
Rose, the youngest, took her eyebrows
For enemies, and plucked them until
Raw skin punched her smiles.
A gilt spindle of blunt rain
Wove bits of seaweed.
Flung to the wind, wild hair.
Purple wine in coin bowls
Bled through quarters,
Crusted around nickel edges,
Before knowing what was what, Rose
Stood in the center of a rye field,
Unable to frown.
A silo erect and proclamatory, stood
A globe of brushy rye awns
Aspirated, as the moon rose,
And washy noises crept forward and back.
Seaweeds phosphoresced between yellow,
Unless it were the tidy glow of looking
That made them burn.
Rose’s wild hair,
Cut short with nickel-edges,
Flung at the wind,
Dissolved into a black powder,
And was eaten as bread
By a thousand Saskatchewanian farmers.
Rose ran, with each shoefall cultivating
An understanding that one does not run
Toward the promise of an ending,
But from the horror of a birth.