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| Goldeye, Vole |  | |  | |
by Tami Haaland | |
I say sweep of prairie
or curve or sandstone,
but it doesn't come close
to this language of dry wind
and deer prints, blue racer
and sage, its punctuation
white quartz and bone.
I learned mounds of
mayflowers, needle grass
on ankles, the occasional
sweet pea before I knew
words like perspective or
travesty or the permanency
of loss. My tongue spoke
obsidian, red agate,
arrowhead. I stepped
through tipi rings, leaped
buffalo grass and puff ball
to petrified clam.
Jawbone of fox, flint,
blue lichen, gayfeather,
goldeye, vole — speak to me
my prairie darling, sing me
that song you know.
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Tami Haaland has work forthcoming in Rattapallax, Clackamas Review, 5AM
and a couple of anthologies. Her book, Breath in Every Room will be out in December.
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