|Oct/Nov 2004 • Poetry • Special Feature|
No one ever writes an ode to Taos
without mentioning: new frontiers,
buffed pink mountains of Sangre
de Cristo, chiles drying over blue doors,
turquoise settling between brown breasts.
My love poem is toWisconsin: plump
German women preparing rhubarb kuchen,
swimming pools set in purple-pansied yards,
O's rolling from old farmers' mouths—
But I'm a liar. My pulse rattles with the scent of sage,
a shot of mescal so hot it tans my lucky hide.