Driving in Mexico With Unwelcomed Company
by Hannah Pedersen
Concrete and sand formulate seas,
above I stand.
The hills speak like wine from a bottle,
clear and precise, I start to remember
dead friends and gypsy women,
like curtains, their faces droop and stretch
over walls of cliff, over there,
where splintered trees
stay silent.
My mind is writing and recovering.
Splintered trees
stay silent.
Blankets of rivers are memories.
Memories playing like those Tarantino films
we used to watch over and over,
on dust of the desert.
House finches guide the rows,
perched on a cactus,
their bodies signals for another station.
If It’s so dreadful, I should leave it all.
I am a rattlesnake and a finch feather
opposing sides,
balancing against each other.
If it’s so dreadful, I should leave it all.
-----------------------------------
Mexico Seen from the Moving Car
THERE ARE HILLS LIKE SHARKFINS
and clods of mud.
The mind drifts through
in the shape of a museum,
in the guise of a museum
dreaming dead friends:
Jim, Tom, Emmet, Bill.
—Like billboards their huge faces droop
and stretch on the walls,
on the walls of the cliffs out there,
where trees with white trunks
makes plumes on rock ridges.
My mind is fingers holding a pen.
Trees with white trunks
make plumes on rock ridges.
Rivers of sand are memories.
Memories make movies
on the dust of the desert.
Hawks with pale bellies
perch on the cactus,
their bodies are portholes
to other dimensions.
This might go on forever.
I am a snake and a tiptoe feather
at opposite ends of the scales
as they balance themselves
against each other.
This might go on forever.
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