by E. Michael Desilets

There were weekends at the Happy Swallow
when gap – toothed women took nothing from him
but his pay envelope and a few
whiskey – primed memories of his years
as a Penn Central brakeman.

He’d wave his imaginary lantern at them
or sometimes his bar stool
and recite raspy snatches of “Railroad Bill”
or “The Wreck of the Old 97.”
He could imitate a train whistle perfectly
(a signal that “The Wabash Cannonball” was on the way)
if he took out his dentures.

In time he drank himself
into the corner booth by the men’s room
and pretty much disappeared except
for the blue bandanna and the overalls
and the last few notes of “The Midnight Special.”

by Andrea L. Watson

Now this is what you shall do —

Take the land each way
you dream a lover   earth skin
seamless against his found beauty

No map for this country called flame
sky   the supple throat of fire   tasting
amethyst   bittersweet   cerulean

Ride some road to that place with no name
past ripe – veined acequias pierced by twilight
heat blood in rock soil pulsing and blazed

Six miles to the belly of moonrise
where mesas pleasured by alamillos and sage
ache beneath horizon’s arched back

Touch loins with smoke and silver to hold
the wanted stars   unlatch the wilding
gate to the burning of the world

Nowhere but dusk   born in clay and tinder
nothing but this   night – blooming
bed of luminous surrender.

Lie down with the land   let it break you —