Black Canyon’s gift to the traveler
By Adam Sarlan
Massachusetts
I never know what my fingers
will touch as I emerge from white
lights of sleep every morning.
Today, an old friend, a burn victim,
one of many lining the canyon’s
gray, windy rim, gave me a hairlock
after I rubbed a manila sheet across
his ribs, creating that slow
riser, a naked poem. I took the strand,
inked it into fingertips and smoothed the
charcoal across cheeks, down mouthcorners,
while wondering how long he had waited
for someone to smear his dark lines
of truth across their face for eyes
to behold.
The act was strange, intoxicating.
It was a wordless book.
Many thanks, friend,
for this gem my
vein-folds tightly clutch.
Thank you, sugary
palms, for holding
my rough, old creases.
BUDDY’S SONG
By Deborah Holt Williams
Glenwood Springs
I fill up your dog dish
With water and ice cubes
So you won’t dehydrate
And collapse on the porch.
I fill up your dog dish
And make sure it’s ceramic.
For doggies this summer,
Metal dishes would scorch.