Sherry Saye


The crescent moon cuddles up close to one of the planets,
fatter, huddles
next to another.
The skies are clear, lies,

and there are fires on the horizon.
The chickens are steaming in the side yard,
someone hosed them down in this heat.
I just want to strap
a case of beer onto an inner tube
and float the Salt River out of here,
out of hell.
Cereza, what are you doing with all of these birds
and planets and all of the children I don't want to have?
I'm leaving, you're erratic, it's crazy
living with you.


"Real Men Don't Need Guardrails"

On the road to Cripple Creek,
settle into the positive.
Roll down your window and grab the Great Divide.
Take off your sunglasses and burn with visions
of Pikes Peak
as your hair leaps
across the sides of steep valleys.
On the road to Cripple Creek,
you must drink
in my car.  Hang out your head,
Tom Dooley.  Along the narrow curves
never slow
for rails and slag,
or reach for the stripped golden hills of Victor.
Wave to the happy tourists,
the buses of gamblers, local miners,
broom makers, antiquers,
sleek and breathless bikers
riding on the outside edge of death.
Inhale and get heady.

Watch out. On the road to Cripple Creek,
everyone stops to take pictures and pee.
Pull in, pull out, gravel shoulders
grind like a slip-slide.
If it's cloudy below, it's sunny
with money in this town.
The atmosphere hugs the earth
from its mountain perch, a satellite view.
We've made it.


Milking Thursday

I shouldn't name a day
to have it spoil.
Fatty cream and butter, yearning, whipping.
Large spoons and pitchers.

I remember my short-tempered grandmother
and her gentle maid, Hallie.
Was that Thursday?  Has it come and gone,
the fresh smell of animal's milk in the kitchen,

the fixing of time and body
to the swollen teats touched and pulled
in the sweet shadows of the hay barn.

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