Wednesday, August 15, 2018

"Burn" by Janice N. Harrington

"Prairie Meadows Burning" George Catlin 1832


The wind then, through seams of bluestem,
or switchgrass swayed by a coyote’s passing. 

Where the fabric gapes, Barthes said,
lies the sensual. A prairie cut 

by winding seeps, or winds or shearing wings.
Mare’s tails, mackerels, cirrus, 

distance dispersed as light. Under a buzzard’s bank
and spiral the prairie folds and unfolds. 

Here between the stands of bluestem, I am interruption.
I rake my fingers over culms and panicles. 

Here seeds burr into my sleeves, spur each hem.
In a prairie, I am chance. I am rupture. The wind— 

thief, ruffian, quick-fingered sky, snatches a kink
of my hair. The broken nap falls, wound round 

like a prairie snake, a coil of barbed wire, a snare
for the unwary. In the fall, volunteer naturalists 

will wrench invading roots and scour grassy densities
with fire. Wick, knot, gnarl, my kindled hair 

will flare, burn, soften into ash, ash that will settle,
sieve through soil, compost for roots to suck 

and worms to cast out, out into the loess that raises
redtop, turkeyfoot, sideoats grama, 

and all the darkened progenies of grass
that reach and strive and shape dissent from light. 

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