Arizona
whatever leaves us leaves
its shape in us
noon
shadows gather
like a pool
of blood beneath our feet
whatever leaves us
assumes our shape
zeno’s arrow an inch’s era away
+
teeth marks on a shoulder like a black and
white image of a meteor crater taken from space
onion and garlic sing in oil while plump little
gnocchi in boiling water roil the surface like koi
umbrellas bloom along the avenue announcing spring
nice to have you home
she says though neither of us is sure she means it. buried within the
accumulation of every word we’ve added to our shared ledger is the
zero-day flaw we never knew was there
+
frost climbs window panes like opaque ivy
like eyes overgrown with cataracts
August passed and winter turned the plums to
glass. crows
scatter at the crack of
the first shotgun blast
ash lives in its tray
filled with shed snake’s skin
father is that you I ask and listen for the
absence of an answer. you were a perched bird, a happy
zephyr inflating itself with promises
+
an emaciated coyote on a high ridgeline
shadows my rhythmic descent into the unforgiving
heat of the valley. one of my toes is bleeding
for more than a mile the coyote matches my human pace
ordinary creatures, the two of us, though one of us expects to
rest. one of us imprinted with a millennia’s
knowledge of which beautiful berries throb with life
and which thicken blood to black tar. one of us builds a
zoo to see the world. one of us lives in it
+
sorry for everything was the last thing
Edward Fitzgerald Beale told his wife and children before
leaving at dawn, the war nearly here, the delicate things ordained to be shattered still
intact. off in the future the sacred desert meadow blazes
golden, promising each of us the very limits of our private paradise, saying be patient
meaning most will die out here. the past
arrives first to claim everything for the
nation of the dead. back home I know you carry on without me, easier
admit it. the children sing unflinching in every room of the house, the perfect
zero of their mouths counting to infinity
+
Krispy Krunchy Chicken from the gas station on Irving
incandescent towers of cold soda and
neon energy drinks. you press your red cheek against the
glass, the oval oil slick you leave behind like the
moon wrapped in a gauze of clouds from an
approaching storm. I’ll come to miss these meals most
napkins turned translucent from the chicken’s juices
amuse bouche of Pizzeria Pretzel Combos and Funyuns
Zebra Cakes for dessert
+
only after you fall
asleep do I creep downstairs
to light
my little chimney my little
abyss, factory that mass produces
nothing but ghosts. I’m meant to live this life
alone, my little missile defense system, my
zero-sum game
+
tall slender stalks of
ocotillo echo in my mind the
photograph of you beneath the surface of the Sea
of Cortez the gilded tendrils of your hair
charged with an electricity that illuminated us once
kelp forest from a long-gone
ancient ocean the soil here rich with death the midnight
zone we lived in before squinting into the sun thirsty and wet and brand new
BRIAN RUSSELL is the author of The Year of What Now (Graywolf), which was a finalist for The Levis Reading Prize. His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The New Republic, and Kenyon Review. He lives in St. Louis.