DH Lawrence at Kiowa Ranch

DH Lawrence at Kiowa Ranch

Dorothy will

prepare the trout

that Tony snagged.

Save the heads for stock.

Mabel wants to use fennel

instead of celery

in the stock, Dear.

Frieda argues that trout

isn’t a fine enough fish

for stock, not white.

Georgia says one reduces

stock more in New York,

Oyster House, remember?

If you must do charades

this evening,

mop your brow

with fennel, Dear.

Georgia is outside

under your tree.

Why? What’s she doing?

Praying, or...

No one’s asked you

what you think

of Pablo or Paul,

and that’s a pity.

One can’t believe,

looking at your

paintings, you know

anything about art.

Gargano can’t be better

with tomato than Santa

Fe, you know.

Before la dolce vita there

was la dolce

Kiowa Ranch, eh?

Gin gives you gas,

rum, constipation,

and whisky has you

on your knees.

But soon must you abandon

your new home for Europe,

September, this year.

Brett, Mabel, and Frieda

vie for your attention.

You’d rather bake bread.

The rosy cast of the bread’s

crust

reminds you of stucco,

so you muse.

All hot and bothered

then abrupt.

Not a recipe for love,

much less

staring at that sun

through lead glass windows

really does nothing for you.

You must believe

in your writing

though critics may

shit on it.

Sit. Write.

Your poems are presents

without irony,

with pasts. Write,

then have lunch.

Morning hurts so

that Frieda

can’t bear being near

you or your moaning.

Go, punctuate your

spiritual dearth by dancing

on your car’s roof. Start it!

How strange to be putting,

sputtering in a Ford

when you could hike it.

If you could breathe

well, that is.

Yet the air here

draws you up, fills

your heart.

Here, this wind

is your spirit,

sugar that rises,

oxygen to limbs.

Your soul, your deep,

inner sweetness springs

even to your fingertips,

nails.

Park at the lookout

outside the ruins:

remember, fill your canteen.

Clean your pockets

before the trailhead

then listen to coyotes cry.

Sandstone runs close

to the road

and steel nets hold

back the mountain.

It slides.

Darker veins could be

igneous. The hills ride

over a caldera.

Above the canyon,

you follow paths

littered with bones

then pause inside.

One cannot long look

into the sun

or black dots your view.

You know this.

Yet you stare at the sunset

as though it were

your papa gone to ground.

The sunset rays your vista

with red as one white

thunderhead passes.

The cloud pierces the dark

blue sky with lightning

and shimmers sheets of rain.

After it rains, spider

webs glisten

upon the fallen pine needles.

Ladders crosshatch adobe

walls and frame tufts

of cotton that blow past.

No longer will macaws

brighten their rooms

nor will corn fill

their great houses.

Don’t slip off the cliff tonight.

Dorothy will

not look for you, again.

[dramatic monologue]