--for Ennio Morricone


Corralled at the Alamo, the messenger throws
a hoe-down shuffle, loosening ammunition
in the blaze of his hips.  He keeps the large harmonica
hidden while they calf-rope him in the shooting gallery.
From the mouth of a twisted saddlebag
come land acts, writs of conscription, posters
of wanted men.  "Listen," he says.  "There is no enemy,"
playing a simple folk melody.  The crowd
empties out of a buckboard whorehouse, and the train
whistles like they got his number.

If this were witnessed by a crow, it would tell you
how, from air, there is a reduced
system of values: blue veins craving their four-part
marches.  In the blindfold, it is easy
to open both hands.  To say, no matter
how many times you've been there
it's already happened exactly that way.

And after the last cigarette is whip-cracked
from his lips, Lupe Velez, the Mexican Spitfire
thumbs down his eyes.  She knows
he was a cherry-built fool for carrying on
so.  The believers press forward and pluck quills
from his ankles, feathers that sow
herds of chickens, row after row grazing
on rotted lawns until the veldt
goes grid steel -- a slick city
raised over the paths of a dead man's
cross-eyed donkey.



Copyright © Laura Johnson, 1999, 2008.  All Rights Reserved.