Letters to Our Women

Listen to tired wives tell
stories about their grandmas,
their songs of infidelities.

Mommas formed families
with whatever wasn’t tossed
or lost in the refiner’s fire.

Traveling tales recounted
futile themes and variations
‘bout where the wind lived.

Moonshine shadows showed
vagabond cowboys outside
riding dapple-grey mustangs.

Deluged with dusty dudes —
no visible means of support:
not many practicing angels.

They visited at gunpoint —
dusty devils, rank rodeo bulls,
snakes in their mouths.

Best burn those days now
— memorize yourselves —
before this land dries out.

Just one more night-train
before rich ones arrive, looking
for small bones, little eyes.

Till then, the starlight is gone:
etched deep inside the desert hills
where freedom lies — alone.

. . . . .

Poet: Susan Powers Bourne
Source: Women.Poets.Nevada
Process: Augmented cento