Divine Mother
May I lie down in a meadow
and be cradled at your chest.
Press my cheek to the earth
to feel your breath.
My tears water your flowers,
I am at the mercy of your comfort.
Holy mother—
an eternal embrace of the ocean
I am rocked and cradled by your waves.
Carried out to current
Surrendering to your pulse.
Your heartbeat, the hum of cicadas.
I climb a tree to be held in the branches of your arms.
Your smile, a sunrise.
Your forgiveness, the sea.
Your kiss, a breeze.
Roaring Fork River Valley - March 2013
Colorado is the place I was conceived. My grandmother and great-aunt were born and raised here—in Glenwood Springs, so I can only imagine they were conceived here, too. Although my conception took place a mile or so from where I sit now, my birth and raising took place almost exclusively in Albuquerque, New Mexico. But I feel I'm from both places. The magic of Colorado is, at times, unsettling. The coincidences, synchronicities and personal history, overwhelming.
Today, my father and I were delivering six bottles of blueberry juice to our family friend Kathy and her daughter Mary Ellen. I saw their house, sitting perfectly in the gorge of the Roaring Fork River Valley, overlooking the titillating stream and other so precisely placed homes. There was Mary Ellen's horse, Crow Dog, who she “got from the Crow Indians. " A sturdy, medium-sized male with red-brown and blonde hair, still fluffy and long, either due to his breed or the fact he hadn't left his colt years.
Mary Ellen's dog played by the river edge, a border collie mix. “There's an elk down there.” Mary Ellen called for her dog. And there he was, a great old creature, lying in the reeds. “We called the wildlife officer.”
I saw him there, and for a moment, he blended so perfectly with the soaked yellow and brown I couldn't discern his antlers. But he moved his head, and I caught a glimpse of his large and shiny black eye.
“Is he hurt?”
“We think so.”
“So what do you do?”
“Wait for the wildlife officer. Sometimes they'll shoot them.”
“There was one a few weeks ago that’d been laying there a long time. His horns had already been cut and his guts were ripped open. We dragged him into the river because nobody came. He was heavy…we were really sorry to hear about your uncle.”
In the bar at the Redstone Inn, there was a handsome man talking with a lady whom he addressed as “Crazy Carol.” I overheard them talking about tattoos. I saw the man was covered in them—although I'm only assuming through the peeks I took poking through his Hank III sweatshirt. Rory was his name. He had dark brown hair and a beard. He wore sunglasses that rested on his forehead above his eyes, as well as basketball shorts and sneakers. His eyes were dark brown and wild—like a child's, and his voice and mannerisms were too.
I caught myself glancing over several times. He probably thought, “Who orders wine at a bar?” I am not used to being ignored by men at bars. Or even the glances not being returned. But I didn't notice a wedding ring. I heard Rory talking about a child—his—and how he taught them sign language. Then I heard snippets of a story he was telling to a portly, red-faced young blonde man who certainly was misinterpreting and returning my glances. Rory was telling Tyler something about “old Mary Ellen” and how he played an elaborate prank on Dwayne's daughter. Dwayne, I thought. That was Mary Ellen's degenerate father—a middle school dropout who bought himself a rototiller and made half a million dollars aerating people's lawns.
“Are you talking about Mary Ellen Pifford?”
“Yeah! Shit. Small town.”
Yadda yadda, more conversation small talk. But no flirtatious glances, no glimpses at the portion of cleavage glinting out of my v-neck.
