BURN

The wind then, through seams of bluestem,

or switchgrass swayed by a coyote’s passing.

Where the fabric gapes, Barthes said,

lies the sensual. A prairie cut

by winding seeps, or winds or shearing wings.

Mare’s tails, mackerels, cirrus,

distance dispersed as light. Under a buzzard’s bank

and spiral the prairie folds and unfolds.

Here between the stands of bluestem, I am interruption.

I rake my fingers over culms and panicles.

Here seeds burr into my sleeves, spur each hem.

In a prairie, I am chance. I am rupture. The wind—

thief, ruffian, quick-fingered sky—snatches a kink

of my hair. The broken nap falls, wound round

like a prairie snake, a coil of barbed wire, a snare

for the unwary. In the fall, volunteer naturalists

will wrench invading roots and scour grassy densities

with fire. Wick, knot, gnarl, my kindled hair

will flare, burn, soften into ash, ash that will settle,

sieve through soil, compost for roots to suck

and worms to cast out, out into the loess that raises

redtop, turkeyfoot, sideoats grama,

and all the darkened progenies of grass

that reach and strive and shape dissent from light.