“at the end of the devil’s breath” by Romaine Washington

…july.

wilted cereal in a bowl / we

drown in brown boiling milk.

the haze of sparklers and fire-

works add to the deafening heat

that drips into

august.

caged in by smog,

air smells of cigarettes and melted tar.

surely this place is meant to

ignite.

september,

when he arrives,

he thinks this is a flat plain,

where desert dirt covers everything like snow

and sweat is meant for breathing.

but then-

october,

and the devil’s breath laps up lotion,

claws skin with its vicious teeth.

yowling roofs beat whoosh and

bend of threatened windows.

tree leaves sound like ocean.

stripped-dry littered bare limbs.

the hard ones snap, ripe for a switch.

usedtabe gangs of tumbleweeds ran the streets;

now, solitary wadded balls of rootless limbs roll by.

november

is a postcard miracle,

surrounded snow capped crisp sky

where our eyes hang glide like eagles.

we perch low in the valley shadow

straining to see

the walk of fame.

sunset and hollywood.

palm springs.

peer into the pier of the pacific.

every mountain peak is

paramount. he says,

if it weren’t for the devil’s breath,

i’d never know

where we are, and

just how beautiful

————————————–

Romaine Washington called us from Rancho Cucamonga, CA.

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