[my apologies for not giving credit to an unknown photographer]
O I would love a cup
of porcelain with a handle
deep, to infuse those herbs.
I would also like to drink, hot
mullein, goldenseal, green
and saffron tea,
throat coaters that warm and soften and free
language buried in the scorched mandala
of my lungs.
Send me teas, my sisters, mothers, nieces
that heal and purge my words.
I am not so alone as you might think.
I am not going mad with grief and drink.
A waning moon goes on waning by day,
over the green drench of this high desert,
this wash carved into sand as fine
as any beach, Pacific or Atlantic,
where all the rocks are painted
by aboriginal hands. Jackrabbits
catapult their buttocks
in little arcs, on the find for pickings.
O I would love to sleep in a cool room.
O I would love to drink from a porcelain cup.
Is that a nest in a tree