Earhart & O’Keefe

Processed with Rookie
Illustration by Kristine Mar.

Earhart

The moon is fine

it’s the stars I’m worried about,

in stagnant constellation,

waiting for their cores to collapse.

 

I want to sprint clear across the country,

steer a Ford truck through deep winters,

fly a steel rig clear across the Atlantic,

to blow hot wind through fear like

eight hundred paper tigers.

 

Restless,

I am itching to move,

it’s making me brave.

 

A broken compass, I think of her,

lost to islands in blue

or

on the run

 

watching the world ripped apart

or

open.

 


 

Georgia O’Keefe

 

You have spent your life a pineapple bud

sprung out from the badlands.

 

Last night I dreamt you were a cow’s skull

breathing heavy across stiff landscapes,

painting my hands thick,

into new geometries.

 

In the heatdark swallows

we waited for mountain lions

gray great and hungry.

 

You handed me things:

a knife,

fire,

Colorado.

 

We ate the dark of it

the smell of earth,

burning,

the taste of dirt exploded to blossom.

 

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