Ruth Nolan
Fool's
Gold
Every winter morning,
a flirtatious wink of light,
the mirage on the dry
lakebed
shimmering across the
desert.
I awaken to this view,
thirsty.
Unlike the tourists, I do
not
come here for a December
tan,
the faux palm tree scenery,
days in the heat and sun.
I hope for a cool drink,
the relief of dip and
paddle,
but seeking relief here
will only leave me aching
from the small arch of my
back.
Instead, I close the shades.
I want to put my canoe on
the water
before it disappears, but by
noon,
the sun will be too cruel,
too bright.
It is better to stay inside
while the sun blisters the
earth.
and the backbone of my boat
stays parked upside down
in my barren backyard.
The elegant sand dunes
shift in the parched breeze,
rearranging themselves in
fine-edged, smooth faced
curves,
One day, I will walk there
and pretend to drink my
fill.
Then, water-logged, I will
be
consumed by fire and wind.
12.29.99
Summer, Palm Desert
Mother Tree
Our gravel has no color, and
our flat scraped yard, no grass;
even the lowest deadpan
desert of the Colorado River Valley
sinks to winter gloom, these
days, a dull voice of dead nerves,
words frozen on the tongue,
fingers glued shut to the bones.
I've hung the holiday lights
on the sword armed cactus tree,
and I'm proud I've avoided a
single puncture wound; I'd gather
armfuls of wailing blood red
blooms in June, and sit in silence
as the fat hummingbirds suck
them dry and dance with a mate.
But now the light is gone,
and our world is stone at 4:00 p.m.
The sunset barely stutters;
the daughter begs my frozen love.
A few colored stars
punctuate the blank of this stiff-jerk world,
promising to last the
deepest nights, our little Christmas tree.
December, 2001
The House on Silver Moon Trail
Tahquitz Peak
I brought you here as a baby
on my back
to spend a glass-cut night
in my small tent,
pain of birth at lonely high
altitude, rush
of wind, sip of frigid
water, howl of wolf.
Now you’re 13, daughter,
holding cramps,
leaning forward in new
abdominal pain.
I left you behind today with
the puppy,
the orange cat clinging to
blanket's edge.
And I, too, lean forward at
the high meadow
just responding to autumn,
silvery frost
on the lank sugar pine arms,
old spider web.
I must plan for the night,
or return to you.
It's been a long and fertile
summer, but
the long grass is turning a
muted brown,
The sterile desert is a
memory now. I watch
the mother deer turn her
back to her young
the only one who sees this
womb shimmer
and dance under lullaby
stars, who sees
the quiet settle of the
pregnant moon, the
last silhouette of antler
against fading light.
October 2001
Mt. San Jacinto Wilderness
Walking
Rain
Some
old homesteader once loved here,
and
chewed a deep well near the spring,
in
the canyon that spines up the mountain,
past
the leather-fruited pomegranite tree.
We
have passed through barbed wire
And
you promise to find a swimming hole
But
the well is silted up, littered with cans.
The
ocean once rose all the way up to here,
leaving
its mark with hermit crab shells,
punctuating
the dry-rot air, guttural utterings
of
the coyote, raspy crackle of rattlesnake.
They
call this an alluvial fan, the spill of sand
from
the teasing mountain peaks. I say
this
is hard-skinned land, the steep climb
back
to the car, following your footprints
tasting
your dust, spitting out seeds--
October
28, 2001
Chino Canyon Hot Springs
Cast
Many bones have been broken
here
in the Mojave River
quicksand.
I see the skeletons of fish
and frogs
tossed back into this flat
desert river
by hunters after they've
skinned the kill.
Cottonwood trees have split
apart, too,
gnawed to the bone by the
beavers.
Behind me, the shadow of a
man,
fishing pole slung on his
shoulder.
He tells me he will catch
crawdads
from the knee deep trout
pond,
skin and fry a trout or two
for dinner.
He asks me to thread the
spineless
worm on his hook so he can
begin.
My hands are strong, my
fingers shaky.
He casts the lure and waits
for a bite
while I snap fat twigs and
build a fire.
December, 1998
Mojave River Narrows
Keeper
Last April, you planted
tender young bulbs
near the yucca spears, the
beavertail cactus
while king snakes ate baby
birds and rattlers
haunted your twilight
tending. Many years,
you've kept the garden,
fended off jackrabbits,
protected your plump,
angel-eared kittens
from the claws of ragged
red-tailed hawks.
And now, coyotes mourn in
jagged rocks
at dusk, and the fat desert
quail hold vigil
on your porch. Tulips
blossom in May cool,
gently open their faces to
the budding sun,
though August heat will
tarnish them brown
and your footprints will be
filled with sand.
April 15, 2001
Kemper Campbell Ranch, Victorville CA
Ochoa's
Farm
I
put up the season's hot chilis in Southern Arizona,
slimy
green seaweed for a dehydrated white woman
locked
in a desert this summer, seaweed to tickle
my
raspy skin. I strip burnt skin from smooth muscle,
the
sharp sting of jellyfish on the back of my hands.
Twenty
pounds of chilis burnt to a crisp, a day's catch.
I
rinse tiny seeds down the sink, a heated contraband,
pack
a dozen ziplock bags away like a stash of drugs.
Tonight
they'll freeze, and plump gray thunderheads
bigger
than sperm whales will swim across the border.
October,
2004
Bisbee, Arizona
The
Salton Sea
It's not a grandiose
embrace,
a geography where ocean hugs
land.
This is a sunken bathtub in
sand,
A dying sea below sea level
A strange ocean without
boats,
Trapped between the hard
faces
Of craggy rock mountain
ranges
And the tease of distant
snow.
Like me, others have come
here:
Cahuilla Indians, with fish
traps
On the jagged northwest
shore,
The salt miners and
railroaders
Buried at dead center now,
Their stories layered in
mud.
There are no great tales
here,
Only gale force winds and
sand,
Trees poking wasted arms
Above the surface, dead fish
Surging en masse to shore.
My feet crunch their awful
bones.
And each day, waves lick the
shore,
salty kisses that drown the
birds
who fly here from distant
cold,
seeking a safe winter home,
not
aware of the reflections
burned
in the deep, the desert’s
blank stare.
Feb 6, 2001
Salton Sea State Park
White Lie
Every cheerful smile of
sunrise, I see water on the dry lakebed
spread across the desert
floor in a lover's lingering embrace.
The mirage is not entirely
true. The sun will be cruel too soon,
110 degrees and rising at
noon. I only pretend to drink my fill.
Better to sink into the
shadows, like rattlesnakes in the sand
as packs of thieving coyotes
lope into their dens and caves,
tongues hanging low. Come
nightfall I'll suckle the heat
listen to the full moon howl
bald-faced lullabies to the dunes.
July, 2003
Silver Spur Ranch
