Geordie and I live in Apache land
once home to Geronimo where
raven babies fledge. Light drifts
in, fades, ending when we let the
secret out, in its frozen amber light.
His shuffling brown shoes caress my
cherry-stained hallway –his crocking
answers to a question, would he grasp
the ledge of the stonewall, while
showering bird seed down on mourning
doves, falling, letting go of seed and soul?
No beach ahead for him to carve a
figure eight infinity mark into sands,
while seagulls shriek in the cloudless
sky and sea lions poke whiskered muzzles
out from kelp gardens watching not like
solace ignoring us in hospice corridors
when we embrace between flowering cacti.
Ninety-two words in Arabic mean lion.
Your body stretches out in the VA’s MRI.
You sleep to awake to taped sounds of bullets
igniting your brain into colors on the screen.
What dream lions crouch ready to attack you?
How long will the Taliban’s screams roar?