My grandmother is dirt and I am desert. Dusk. The datura unnerves me. I ride out to violate the baked earth. Hear the gray sage, how its hairs bristle in wind. I know distance is a woman I must cover at night, smoothing her clay shawl. I ride with my angry kiss in my mouth until I am forced to stop: red hollyhock against bright blue larkspur, tell me who has not been quieted by this. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TRANSPOSITIONS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO A FRIEND WRITING ON CABARET DANCERS by EZRA POUND A RED, RED ROSE by ROBERT BURNS ODE TO ETHIOPIA by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR FOR THAT HE LOOKED NOT UPON HER by GEORGE GASCOIGNE THE WILLOWS by FRANCIS BRET HARTE SONNET: 14. ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF CATHERINE THOMASON by JOHN MILTON |