Hill Behind Finn’s House, Val Verde, January
Iris Cushing
How to get around it isn’t clear.
A thicket hedged across the road,
a high curve mass
of tumbleweeds.
Wind draws their tendrils tight.
How to get around them.
To the left, uphill,
to the right, the place
we used to be, where
tumbleweeds won’t tumble.
Earth and sky and thorny combs
that card them to each other.
You’re loose from your root,
hair caught in a knot at your nape.
Touch a tumbleweed, it springs back.
Tossed upon its thickest wisp,
a length of sisal twine
worked stiff,
a fishnet glove
the air can wear.
How it blows
between you.
The wind that names
the tumbleweed, names its purpose,
calls it by the way it moves.
I didn’t know you had a cactus
now tattooed across your back.
I haven’t seen you naked in so long.
About this poem
“Some plants spread their seeds by attaching to passersby. For the tumbleweed, the passerby is the wind, and rather than sending seeds, the whole plant hitches a ride – and in order to do so, must die. This philosophically-rich situation was the entry point for this poem.” – Iris Cushing
About Iris Cushing
Iris Cushing is the author of “Wyoming” (Furniture Press Books, 2014). She teaches at Queens College and lives in Queens, N.Y.
The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day@poets.org.
(c) 2016 Iris Cushing. Originally published by the Academy of American Poets, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate.
