Still-Life, Hennepin County Minnesota, 1996
http://www.maverickmagazine.com/articles/188/1/Still-Life-Hennepin-County-Minnesota-1996/Page1.html
Albino Carrillo
Albino Carrillo is an Associate Professor of Poetry and Creative Writing in the English Department of the University of Dayton. His one book is IN THE CITY OF SMOKING MIRRORS, published by the University of Arizona Press. Over the past 21 years, his work has appeared in national literary journals such as The Americas Review, Puerto Del Sol, The Antioch Review, Blue Mesa Review, and Columbia. By Albino Carrillo
Published on 02/4/2003
Some broad American flower is growing
on the prairie, opening in intervals,
a heart. Walking from the train tracks
the flat-faced drunks on Hennepin don't care.
on the prairie, opening in intervals,
a heart. Walking from the train tracks
the flat-faced drunks on Hennepin don't care.
Some broad American flower is growing
on the prairie, opening in intervals,
a heart. Walking from the train tracks
the flat-faced drunks on Hennepin don't care.
They're blond combines, dark-rusted John Deere parts
squatting out in the rain. How many have tasted
the lonely waters of the Mississippi
as it flowed past my dark northern rose?
It's too late for hornets.
All you find in the cold rain are the dry bodies
crushed in pieces on the dashboard.
Their mud-huts returned to earth. Their stingers dull.
If you travel West, descendants of German farmers gather corn
from small parcels of prairie where the earth turns black to yellow--
like the long grass growing until October
you've forgotten the hum of flies looking for anything sweet,
the black-eyed flowers singing names you cannot possibly know.
The Minnesota earth giving up summer, giving up heat.
Copyright © Albino Carrillo, 2002. All Rights Reserved.
on the prairie, opening in intervals,
a heart. Walking from the train tracks
the flat-faced drunks on Hennepin don't care.
They're blond combines, dark-rusted John Deere parts
squatting out in the rain. How many have tasted
the lonely waters of the Mississippi
as it flowed past my dark northern rose?
It's too late for hornets.
All you find in the cold rain are the dry bodies
crushed in pieces on the dashboard.
Their mud-huts returned to earth. Their stingers dull.
If you travel West, descendants of German farmers gather corn
from small parcels of prairie where the earth turns black to yellow--
like the long grass growing until October
you've forgotten the hum of flies looking for anything sweet,
the black-eyed flowers singing names you cannot possibly know.
The Minnesota earth giving up summer, giving up heat.
Copyright © Albino Carrillo, 2002. All Rights Reserved.