Lines of the Lark

          tight marks in the earth—dashes
          I close a circle of rose rocks

          the wheat warned me—the Lark is lurking
          its wings wrinkle on my back

          heaviness spirals on my neck
          my crown of prairie-fire falls to the ground

          I pretend to know Morse code
          because, because I am staccato and fragmented

          my hands carry red dirt and the names
          that will never grow here again

          shocks of sapphire spit
          gasoline water runs from my lips

          my cerise breath swells and breaks
          do larks even come to Oklahoma?

          meadowlark, skylark, what a lark!
          do not sing unless I say I will listen

          where were the scissor-tails?
          the lines the Lark left still ring metallic

          the old world billows but I cannot fly

Michelle Watts is a dog walker who likes poetry. Dis, her first book, is forthcoming from dancing girl press.
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