EL MITAD DEL MUNDO

We were driving after dark, always a risky business in the deserts of Baja California, but we were caught between villages. We thought we were invincible on the gringo trail thinking we could outpace the darkness. First, it was an overturned truckload of jicama roots, like hundreds of blind eyes or small moons seeking orbit. Then it was the donkey crossing the road, then a red steer. Our headlights cut through the darkness like kitchen knives. The stars were brilliant this far from civilization, only darkness and the weeping stars to accompany us the shoulders of the narrow road with potholes large enough to swallow the VW bug. it was a slalom course. And, the headlights were a skein of light cutting the darkness into pieces. Something striped with an impossible long tail—an escapee from a Dr. Seuss book—ran in front of us, and there was no time to swerve, no way to avoid it on the raised road bed, a slender thread built for flash floods, was like a dyke. The wheelwell thump told us it was not a lucky night for that creature. My first and last sighting of a cuatamundi, the felling of a rare animal beneath that carnage. then it dawned on me the warning not to drive after dark was equally dangerous for the local animals as well. 

4/24 Write On! with Nels Christiansen

CONSIDER THE RIVER

CONSIDER THE RIVER

Consider the river wending its way 

from the frozen north to where the old school 

holds onto the old ways, where the rights of some 

outnumbers the rights of those oppressed by race, 

or poverty, or creed. The river brings to those of us 

living downstream a longing for portage across 

that inconsolable distance no explorer will breech, 

no bridge will ever span, and yet we attempt unity

by virtue of humanity. And fail utterly. 

Only the shining river spills into the bay, 

spills into freedom, spills into light.

4/17/24 Write On! with Nels Christiansen

Sebastopo LitCrawl reading

I will be reading with Raphael Bloch, Pamela Singer Yezbick, Judith Stone, Sherrie Lovler and Sally Churgel for Earth Kindness, LitCrawl at The Redwood (West of the Laguna) 234 S. Main St. Sebastopol, Sat. April 13, at 2 PM. More readings about town until 7:30PM.

HORSES IN SNOW

Two dark horses in shaggy winter coats

stamp their feet in anticipation,

seeking an escape from the bed of snow. 

The mountains fold into the valley like fitted sheets. 

The soughing conifers shake their bows free,

spring delayed with no chance of surcease. 

The hardwood fence is a bridge for small rodents 

to cross the blanket of frozen ground. 

The horses pace, each in opposite directions 

as if on a treadmill to move the seasons along. 

They’ve beaten a trail in the bauchy ice,

eagerly await their hay, but it is late again, 

and they worry the fence line as if urging it 

to spring into action, knowing they can’t dig down 

to the dry grasses buried below snowline.

4/4/24 Molly Fisk Poem a Day

MEZZALUNA

A brown child stands at attention 

with her long, dark hair nailed to the wall 

in a reverse sunburst, or an implosion.

She resembles the night studied with stars. 

Her smile reaches all the way to her toes. 

She doesn’t yet know that she is on display.

Will always be judged by the blade.

4/2/24 Molly Fisk Poem a Day

OUT OF SEASON

Once upon a time I bought a princess pumpkin, 

more gourd than orange with salmon red crenelations.

We were waiting for a brace of horses 

to take us to the ball. I had no gown, no glass slippers, 

but soot covered the ground dark as night. 

The Uber horses never arrived. 

They were booked for a more lucrative fairytale. 

So they sent an Easter bunny the color of coal.

Instead of whisking me away, he set to 

eating the seeds, leaving a pile of black eggs 

perhaps as punishment for calling him last minute.

Prince Charming was running late and sent Jack instead. 

But he has two left feet and ate Englishmen for breakfast.

Fairy Godmother was sleeping it off in the corner 

muttering how someone had mixed up her spells 

and everything was coming out all wrong. 

The world had turned to ashes. Needing a scapegoat, 

she blamed the long shadows of crows loitering in the car park.

No one was going to get out of this carnival dead or alive.

4/1/24 Molly Fisk Poem a Day