ANNA SCOTTI is a writer and teacher whose poems have appeared in Chautauqua, Lunch Hour Stories, Poems and Plays, and Chickasaw Plum. She teaches English at an independent school in Hollywood, California, and is finishing a novel.
Crouching there, by the bald back tire,
you might be pulling roots from the black earth,
shooting craps, stirring the ashes of some archaic fire,
or tracing letters in the thickening soil, smelling leaves and bone
and loam rise against the swelling heat.
Your cheek is a wing, soft against the cool fender.
Last time: the shriek of crows, each blade of grass.
Now your fingers curl about a stiff cut hose, each separate
and determined to make this thing happen.
You released a falcon once, palms spreading wide,
pushing him up, up into steep canyons of silvered clouds.
Your dogs will be snapping in the side yard, soon,
fearful and reluctant, but hunger-tamed
against the whispering uniforms, the jangled steel,
the dulling odor stirred by a thin breeze,
mingling with milkflowers, evanescent, and away.