Poem
Wendy Videlock
MY MOSES
MY MOSES
MY MOSES
Big Jack and his walking sticklive on the ridge. Navajo
orphan kids dance for him,
bobcat urine’s in the weeds,
the shotgun barrel’s up his sleeve,
a Persian coin is on the wind.
The Chinese Mountains smell the moon
and arch their backs. I tell him, Jack,
there’s times I wish I was living in
canvas France, the old west,
a picture book, the Sea of
Tranquility, or even in
the den near the hot spring.
He says, kid, to hell with
phantom limbs; spring is a verb,
a wish is a wash, a walking stick
is a gottdam wing.
© 2008, Wendy Videlock
From: Poetry, Vol. 192, No. 4, July/August
Publisher: Poetry, Chicago
From: Poetry, Vol. 192, No. 4, July/August
Publisher: Poetry, Chicago
Poems
Poems of Wendy Videlock
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MY MOSES
Big Jack and his walking sticklive on the ridge. Navajo
orphan kids dance for him,
bobcat urine’s in the weeds,
the shotgun barrel’s up his sleeve,
a Persian coin is on the wind.
The Chinese Mountains smell the moon
and arch their backs. I tell him, Jack,
there’s times I wish I was living in
canvas France, the old west,
a picture book, the Sea of
Tranquility, or even in
the den near the hot spring.
He says, kid, to hell with
phantom limbs; spring is a verb,
a wish is a wash, a walking stick
is a gottdam wing.
From: Poetry, Vol. 192, No. 4, July/August
MY MOSES
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