The Last Poem

 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.