A Thousand Voices Long – Scott Wiggerman

Like ripe
blackberries,
the room exudes
an attitude.
In a snare of white
a yellowed spot
in the middle
of the bedspread
with two small holes
like coyote eyes.
Every cheap motel
in the middle
of nowhere,
shades down,
but we see
shadows
through the gaps,
sidewalk skidmarks,
the dispossessed.
Remember when
the house
was leveled?

Remember the sound
of chrysanthemums?
Our palms
no longer have
lovelines or
lifelines.
We see
through the wings
of dragonflies.
We smell
breakfast tacos
and gasoline.
Even the grasshoppers
aren’t green.

swiggermanScott Wiggerman is the author of three books of poetry, Leaf and Beak: Sonnets, Presence, and Vegetables and Other Relationships; and the editor of several volumes, including Wingbeats: Exercises & Practice in Poetry, Lifting the Sky: Southwestern Haiku & Haiga, and Bearing the Mask. Recent poems have appeared in A Quiet Courage, Naugatuck River Review, Red Earth Review, Rat’s Ass Review, shuf, Yellow Chair Review, as well as the anthologies This Assignment Is So Gay, Forgetting Home: Poems about Alzheimer’s, and The Great Gatsby Anthology. He is an editor for Dos Gatos Press of Albuquerque, New Mexico.