The Last Poem

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 Truchas, New Mexico. Look at that moon!



Sitting underneath the cauldron sky
Far away from home
Still the same sky
I take in the stars
Looking like busted Christmas lights.
I wish I may
I just might
Cast a spell tonight.

Take deep breaths
Truchas air stings my dry nostrils.
The moon leans over my shoulder
Immersed in her glow
I feel blessed,
Forgiven for my wrongs
My pen waves across the page
Cuts across the lines
It writes-
Not Queer, not Latina, not brown butch
Writes.
Not poet, not playwright, not fiction writer
Writes,  “Be a writer the way a mountain is a mountain
Even in darkness
It can’t hide its shape.”

My stories stir inside me
Truchas Peaks’ deep
No clouds in the sky to top the night
A breeze plays footsies with my toes
Rises and rattles my pages
More stars appear to the beat
Of crickets’ chirping.
Birds, dogs and the brush of my pen harmonize.
We all have something to say at the moon,
My guided confession
A howl lost in the night.

Natural world, you have won me over twice,
A guilt free escape
From my job, the traffic,
The “how was your day”, and feeding routines
I’ve come to bury my poem about writing.

Flowing fields wave at me like cheering fans
Enticing me to jump off this deck and crowd surf.
I write down my last dribble
Peel the pages out like burned flesh
Rip into pieces
Cup them in between my palms like a worry stone
Massage, soak in my writing
My work wilts in my grip.
I open my ink-smeared hands
Release my confession confetti
Pieces fall, wounded birds, to the ground
Get tangled in the fields
The rest scamper like tumbleweeds.

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