名人诗歌|Heart

Old fang-in-the-boot trick. Five-chambered

asp. Pit organ and puff^{1 adder2. Can live}

in any medium save ice. Charmed by the flute³

or the first thunderstorm in spring， drowsy⁴

heart stirs from the cistern^{5， the hibernaculum，}

the wintering den^{6 of stars. Smells like the cucumber}

served chilled on chipped Blue Willow^{7. Her garden}

of clings， sugars， snaps， and strings^{8. Her creamy breasts}

we called pillows and her bird legs and fat fingers

covered with diamonds from the mines in Africa.

The smell of cucumber Her mystery roses

Heading out Bandera to picnic and pick corn，

the light so expert that for miles

you can tell a turkey vulture

from a hawk^{9 by the quiver in the wing.}

Born on April Fools'， died on Ground Hog's，

he pulls over not to piss but to blow away

any diamondback unlucky enough to be

on the road between San Antonio and Cotulla.

Squinting^{10 from the back of the pickup11}

into chrome and sun and shotgun confection，

my five boy cousins who love me more

than all of Texas and drink my spit

from a bottle of Big Red on a regular basis

know what the bejeweled and the gun-loading

have long since forgotten. And that is：

Snakes don't die. They just play dead. The heart

exposed to so many scrapes， bruises^{12， burns，}

and bites sheds its skin， sprouts^{13 wings and fl ies，}

becomes the two-for-one sparkler on

the Fourth of July， becomes what's slung^{14 between}

azure^{15 and cornfield： the horizon.}