Prairieography

by M F Drummy

We look forward to the street tacos at Jefe’s. AC blasting, packed. Main Street is like this all
summer. Parades, music, food, misters, the flags. We feel American. The John Hancock Tower.
The father and son presidents buried side-by-side in the musty tombs of the old white church. The
sweet docent – sober Cindy with the cute cut – smiling on the local bus. Graceland and Dinosaur,

floating down the Green River. Nymphs and caddis flies. Petroglyphs on the red rock. Camelback
off 84 near the pueblo, a snake of rain. Raking dust in Abiquiú. Wild chokecherries for the priests.
We don’t wanna get stuck here, you say. Too many prayers, graves. Cries of the Swainson’s hawk
all the way to Chaco. The dust carries us. An endless highway, cobalt, gold in the distance. You

tip your phone on its side while you drive through the canyon, making the weather dance. Screw
this, we’re late for winter. Autumn hums here. The cottonwoods and chamisa all aflame. We drink
desert water, chew bluestem, spit out catcalls. Pastel on the bone. The earth sweats. Grasshopper,
cicada, hypnotist. In Tulsa they drill for meat. If you touch anything at all it would start with

                                                         a whisper from home
                                                         a whiff
                                                         of before.