Jorie Graham Has an Affair with a Pastoralist
By Michael P. McManus

When Spring Hill fills with wild flowers

that storm the slopes like rainbow troopers,

or tiny mustangs that shower colored sparks

off their hooves, I will climb the western ridge

at sunset when the peepers begin to croak

like silly widows drunk on wine,

who ask the gods to keep their husbands warm

until they can sleep with them again.

Yes, I will walk through vine and fern,

push my way through tangled deadfalls,

cross the mossy rocks, which over lifetimes gone

before them, will never move unless the world ends

in a cataclysmic burst of fiery rough and tumble.

I will watch the sun sink like a molten coin.

I will watch the languid cattle burst into flame.

I will watch bats pluck stars from the sky.

And when you arrive, tired from your climb,

my fingers will tell stories on your lips,

and I will fill your mouth with honey.

My love, our secret will be as safe as any full moon,

that runs naked across a summer solstice sky. 

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