Hillary Berg, Smoke (Artist Website)
Archival Inkjet Print from Kodak Portra Film
The last embers of eighty proof
drift from the tips of my ears,
picked off by a deer-quick wind—
silk to chin, it's one of those nights
you could hold up by the heels,
give a good shake only to find
there's not a single warm coin
that's going to tumble out
the seams of pockets that deep.
The only thing that keeps this road
from a smear of grease on black denim
is the spark of my mare's shoes jumping
every ninth time her hooves strike gravel.
In between, I start to wonder if my eyes
are grazing wind or if I'm blind
behind closed lids—but on we go
grinding along the flint path
to one lone steer who waits at the break,
his coal-line spine humped against
the Atlas load of a moonless space all
hell and Hail Mary
—those steel feet spit fire,
crack to a halt, and this
tight-lipped night gives in to us between
the sage-pocked jaws of the Valley.