By John Nizalowski
Pecos Pueblo Rattlesnake
There it lay—
wary, yet quiescent.
People gathered round
to view the splendid reptile.
One tourist in shorts and
a Cape May t-shirt stepped in
close enough to record a video.
Evoked a coiled response—
venomous strike in the making.
Thus ending its film debut,
the rattler slid peacefully off
into the junipers between the
thousand-year-old Towa village
and the 18th century Catholic
church built when the Spanish
reconquered the Southwest
after the great Pueblo Revolt.
As I entered the church complex,
a park ranger walked past with
a snake-catching rod and bucket.
“Please forgive us,” I whispered
after descending the ladder into
a kiva’s ancient stucco walls,
“for here we are once again,
ejecting the earth’s spirits.”
Cemetery Soul
(for Ursula)
The fox
slid through
gravestones,
like a raven’s shadow
under an old desert sun.
When she
stopped
we did too,
peered into her
canine, mocking
eyes that dared us
to join in the hunt.
When we refused,
standing frozen in
place, she slipped
away, her grey-
streaked disdainful
tail vanishing amidst
rows of funerial yews.
This trickster spirit
gone, until the next
time we crossed
the feral boundary.
The Aged Gods
Have you ever noticed
how a cloudy sky,
nearly night,
is a deep,
almost imperceptible blue?
The terrier shakes a stuffed
toy like it’s a dying rat. The
teapot sings an atonal hymn,
while I sip the golden rye.
How many centuries
has something like
this been going on?
The terrier drops the toy
and attacks a spiral in the
air. Outside, the rainfall
feeds the muddy Colorado,
chocolate waters rolling
down to the Sea of Cortez,
its waves lapping against
Mexico’s ancient temples.
The hum of traffic,
the storm’s murmur,
the roll of old bones:
just the universe
turning on its axis.
Eternity
(for Myla)
The old terrier
paces slowly
from sunlight
into shade,
where she lies
prone in the
cool space,
panting.
The terrier faces
the stone Buddha,
half in shadow,
half in the light,
Bees maintain
the vibration:
the frequency
is deep blue.
Is it true – your
last thought is
your best thought?
The old terrier is the Buddha.
The Buddha is an old terrier.
Saturday Afternoon
The future,
more or less,
is the color of the sky.
A striped whipsnake
demands its space.
We share a place
where men once
tattooed their faces
on the night of the
full equinox moon.
The twin churches
face the rising sun.
The kivas are open
To the eternal stars
John Nizalowski’s most recent books are Chronicles of the Forbidden, a finalist for the
Colorado Book Award, and The Emergence of Frank Waters: A Critical Reader. In addition, his
writings have appeared widely in literary, scholarly, and journalistic publications. Before
retiring, he taught writing and mythology at Colorado Mesa University.
Photo Credit: Kyle Harvey