IAM Commemorates National Poetry Month

Outside Abilene

Marcus Goodyear

The land less flat than I

guessed, it’s still hairy gray

with curly pubic oak

at the 33-miles-to-go sign

where that church boy fell asleep

and killed a family of four

on their way camping.

Still alive, the land has its labors

pushing until the grain crowns

golden ripe for the combine,

elevated or spewed onto trains

running parallel to barbed wire

stretching between corrugated iron

posts that keep us company.

A sign in the dry lake:

Please Jesus send rain.

But Jesus hitched a ride

in the back of our truck

where the wind blows his dark hair

so wild no one sees him smile

except the dry prickly pear.