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I Am Not My Father’s Dream
counting smoke plumes
on the mesa horizon
while yucca spire buds
remain un-blossomed.
Between rocks guarding
the front door, a sunflower
stalk bends. I welt too.
Yellow flames wake the air.
Am I the elk rushing
out of the forest,
. on fire, moaning into
hot wind while flames lick
my ankles, my torso?
Today is iron red,
a fiery dust
devil swirling us
A hummingbird flits,
beats by my head, pauses.
I bite my tongue,
salt tides in my mouth.
I raise a hand, high,
but its zeros off, why? —
yellow smoke hammers
every last mesa away.
I Am Not My Father’s Dream
counting smoke plumes
on the mesa horizon
while yucca spire buds
remain un-blossomed.
Between rocks guarding
the front door, a sunflower
stalk bends. I welt too.
Yellow flames wake the air.
Am I the elk rushing
out of the forest,
on fire, moaning into
hot wind while flames lick
my ankles, my torso?
Today is iron red,
a fiery dust
devil swirling us
A hummingbird flits,
beats by my head, pauses.
I bite my tongue,
salt tides in my mouth.
I raise a hand, high,
but its zeros off, why? —
yellow smoke hammers
every last mesa away.
Song Dust
While walking the shady
side of the street, the good Mayor
kicks a child out of the way.
“My life here feels like a churning
red dust devil on Mars.
“You see, my constituents
are like lassos of light
tightening around my neck.
They are not old snow, or
a bouquet of blue roses
“They are not cottonwood fluff
clogging everything up.
. They are red ink turned black,
yet a stain on my voice,
glittering knives to my eyes.
“So, why not be a man
riding a horse sized rooster,
or a clown with a wolf snout,
or a boulder with shark teeth,
why not while I have a say.”
Just then he feels a stone
strike the back of his head,
for the child has returned,
and his pockets are overflowing
with a choir of stones.
Song Dust
While walking the shady
side of the street, the good Mayor
kicks a child out of the way.
“My life here feels like a churning
red dust devil on Mars.
“You see, my constituents
are like lassos of light
tightening around my neck.
They are not old snow, or
a bouquet of blue roses
“They are not cottonwood fluff
clogging everything up.
They are red ink turned black,
yet a stain on my voice,
glittering knives to my eyes.
“So, why not be a man
riding a horse sized rooster,
or a clown with a wolf snout,
or a boulder with shark teeth,
why not while I have a say.”
Just then he feels a stone
strike the back of his head,
for the child has returned,
and his pockets are overflowing
with a choir of stones.
Ricardo from his Adobe Says
See the rusty horseshoe
embedded in the threshold—fading.
Listen to the screeching
of the turkey out back.
Place your eye to the pane,
soon nothing but darkness.
A tear does not retrace
a trail back into the eye.
On three sides of the sky,
plumes of wildfires fly.
Sunlight ghosts a chemtrail
pointing straight down at us.
The sentence is mine, yours,
a string of dry chiles.
Slow down, like the pendulum
inside the mantle clock.
Conquistadors used crossbows,
long daggers, and spears—time
is a rotting horse, a tale
of history, closing distance.
Ricardo from his Adobe Says
See the rusty horseshoe
embedded in the threshold—fading.
Listen to the screeching
of the turkey out back.
Place your eye to the pane,
soon nothing but darkness.
A tear does not retrace
a trail back into the eye.
On three sides of the sky,
plumes of wildfires fly.
Sunlight ghosts a chemtrail
pointing straight down at us.
The sentence is mine, yours,
a string of dry chiles.
Slow down, like the pendulum
inside the mantle clock.
Conquistadors used crossbows,
long daggers, and spears—time
is a rotting horse, a tale
of history, closing distance.
About the Author
Mario Duarte
Mario Duarte is a Senior Academic Advisor at the University of Iowa and a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. His poems and short stories have appeared in aaduna, Chicago Literati, Hinchas de Poesía, Huizache, Lunch Ticket, Pank, RavensPerch, Rigorous, Storyscape, and Typishly.