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THE FALL OF BILLY THE KID
He rides a blood bay,
picks his way along an old wagon trail,
its ruts cut deep beside the Rio Bonito.
Amber tinges the cottonwoods, their leaves
incandescent in the morning sun.
A sombrero shadows his face,
not the silly top hat he wore in that photo.
He spurs on to San Patricio,
anticipates eating green enchiladas
and chili rellenos with the Otero family.
He ignores the whoosh of raven wings
above his head, and reins the bay left,
hooves slipping on smooth stones.
Pals, Tom and Charlie, now lie
in the old Fort Sumner cemetery,
but today Billy Bonney feels invincible.
BILLY THE KID BEGS FOR HIS LIFE
July in old Fort Sumner,
inside the Maxwell house, cool, dark;
the hallway draws night air.
Billy pleads, "Paulita, let's go to Mexico."
Fingers pressed to his lips, she silences him.
"Manana, Manana."
How can she leave this place,
the old aunt who raised her?
How can she choose between passion
and another's steady love?
Near the Pecos, cottonwoods shiver,
willows whisper a warning:
he's coming, he's coming.
Billy urges once again, "Paulita, Paulita, let's go to Mexico"
"Manana, Manana."
HER GRAVE
Beneath the peach tree
he shovels hard black dirt,
even in December breaking a sweat,
his exertion primitive.
I watch from the kitchen window,
envision endless prairies,
Conestoga wagons, fields of wheat.
When standing thigh-deep in the hole,
he steps out, walks to the house,
asks me what to do with the flannel pad.
"Bury her on it."
Only after the space is mounded,
do I go outside, stand numb.
If I am this bereaved for a dog,
how did pioneer women survive
burying their children?
Xeriscape
May in Artesia, New Mexico. The habitual west wind blows, but
too hot for my Schnauzers in the car. I stop at La Fonda's for
an order of cheese enchiladas to go, then take my foil plate to
the city park. At a picnic table with two dogs at my feet, I
gaze across the street into a yard bordered by rust-red lava
rock. In the center stands a massive Spanish dagger with plumes
of white blossoms. Crimson tips atop long canes of octocillo
wave in the favonian breeze. The milky greens of agave and
cenizo lend variety to bright verdancy. As I admire the desert
plants, my hand drops to caress a silky head.
little rain
- woman with hose
- waters by hand
Mountain Glazes
During gloomy days on the Texas Coast, I remember the colors of
New Mexico and how my spirits rise as I walk up Sudderth Drive,
absorbing the hues of Ruidoso. Slanted morning light touches a
row of shops painted red, blue, or green. Dried red ristras
hang on porches. A crimson staircase spirals to a second-story
boutique. Exquisite in detail, McGary bronzes blind the eye to
lifeless metal. Black bears of carved wood sit in yards. If I
am lucky, I catch a glimpse of Sierra Blanca frosted with snow.
my earrings--
- tiny pine cones
- dipped in gold
From New Orleans
- guest room--
the trundle bed
remains hidden
forwards a message from the owners of a bed & breakfast
where she once stayed:
"An oak fell on the front porch. Water rose four feet
in the lower floor, but the upper rooms are undamaged.
We hope to repair and reopen soon."
I imagine the Greek Revival mansion with paint peeling,
its white columns marred by water stains. A giant tree,
heavy with blossoms, sheds white petals onto the lawn.
- moist heat
the scent of magnolias
along with musk.
Lynn Edge divides her time between two homes in Texas. Her writing straddles a line between poetry and prose. Her haibun have appeared in Lunarosity, Kaleidowhirl, Flashquake, Contemporary Haibun Online, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, and Simply Haiku. She's also published in Rose and Thorn, Wilmington Blues, Flash in the Pan and other ezines, and is included in 2007 and 2008 Texas Poetry Calendars. (2005, Feb. 2009)
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