Triangles on the Prairie

Triangles on the Prairie

(“My people will live safely and quietly in their homes. They will not be afraid of trouble.” Isaiah 32:18)

The desk took up a quarter of the office,
the phones rang downstairs and up. I answered
on the second ring and heard a voice I knew who
did not recognize mine.

So, I cultivated some extra space,
slid the papers and requests-for-quotes aside,
and listened closer hoping to find the texture
that mingled my memory with hues to remind
us both of the rhythms that conversation left behind.

My recollection my be spotty, hers may be crystal-clear,
yet I hear the cadence that puts me (place and time)
inside a world not my own.
There were triangles on the prairie,
hoop-skirts on twirl,
drum-songs pitched low and high,
and
distant campfires curling toward the west,
curling slow upon the sky.

If only we could digitize,
sanctify with frybread and wine;
if only we could replace our insistence with
newborn reminiscence where
each day is a
new day. And each voice is
a giggle until its final breath.

I fear my cognitive decline,
I fear the antipoems in me.
So I dream to recall the voices,
I muse to let the smoke of a thousand
incense conversations float and land
wherever they will.