Western Voices: Michael H. Brownstein


This is the way of the seed of the locust,
the grass frog, the tiny peeper.

I built this room from ripped cedar shakes and cardboard,
soft adhesives, silver spun nails, crucifix screws.

Light enters the room through tears in the netting,
disfigured branches, salt and weed.

They told us her shoes were on the wrong feet,
that her eyes leaned backwards.

They told us she had chameleon skin
and wonderful hair the color of curl and frizz.

They told us she would like this place above the garden,
near the home of the gray squirrel and mother possum.

We like it, too, the wood strong and smooth,
soft bark, the leaf a melody of light and windsong.

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