Medicine Man


I can't heal myself! Spit
Gold teeth to a rusty puddle
Of blood in this ochreous
Hell-stretch of bone-pocked

Desert. I'm pickled in
Whiskey and dying
In this trap; tourists snap
At the copperhead in gasoline,

Coyote pelt, splintered Injun
'n sickly shootists. Joshua
Tree's whistlin' Dixie
As high noon gnaws, everything

Dies. I'll be borned agin --
Beady trinkets, fistfuls
Of spine to charm
Your squaw, your whooping

Child. Bury me
Alive. Ribcage
Rasps one last supper o' dust.
When my eyes are fingered

Shut -- see --
Clouds like mesas
In a blue stream sky,
Buzzards hawking
My bones for ice.

Sep 21, 2003 John Goss