In a storeroom
of stagnant air
aswirl with motes of dust,
they stood on bent stems

in a shaft of sunlight,
six disks of blinding yellow
rising from a vase
of clear, cobalt glass.

They looked so real
I had to touch them
to see that they were silk,
imposturous to petals

as words, hardly wrought
and artfully
arranged on a page,
to poetry.

In far West Texas,
the size of the brims
of Stetsons and sombreros
is a testament
to its violence.
Days, balled into the sun

like a bright light bulb
drawing its moth of earth
ever closer, it blazes,
hardening desert plants
to the texture of leather
and wrenching them into thorns.

It’s even staked its claim
on the clear, black nights,
streaking them with comets
and branding them with stars
glowing like the tips
of sucked cigarettes.

With two wings, a fuselage,
and a tail, all of balsa wood,
we’d construct our little planes,
the wings and tails so thin
we’d scissor their plastic sheaths
painstakingly as Mama
cutting coupons from the Sunday paper.

Through a slot in the side
of the fuselage, we’d slide the main wing,
toward the front for gliding,
the back for loops.  The tail
slid into a groove atop the back.
Sometimes, the fierce West Texas wind
would dislodge the tail, causing the plane

to cartwheel over rocks and cacti
till the wings broke like dry kindling.
We’d patch them if we could with Scotch tape
and throw their weightless mass to the wind,
clenching our fists as if our lives
hinged on the next safe landing.
And at the age of ten, they did.

Their boats, booms lowered
And dragging their nets,
Dot the Gulf at first light
Like strange, thick-bodied moths.

Their hands are a blur
Of motion, their fingers
So knobby and muscular
It’s a wonder they flex,

Stabbed with the spines of hardheads
And slashed with the pincers
Of crabs, calloused with scars
Yet deft enough when mending nets

To make a seamstress marvel.