I’m at the broken mouth of your door
thirsty as a parking-lot dog,
the sun-beaten road smacked at my feet.
Like so many others I’ve come
to have my words melt like wax
into ancient reading
eyes hidden in the moldering brick
of the barrio. Lift this weight, we say
El Tiradito take it away.
Give us your candles & lanterns
to survey the Dark Unknown.
The Inca Doves of our hearts
are thrashing about, rusted wings.
Cooing sounds like no hope.
Autumn is zipping summer nights
into its black bag like a cadaver
where thunder peals above Tucson’s bones
and a dog barking in the distance.
Leaving my words in the dimples of that wall,
words for myself and for my friend Ethan,
the sky is pale and open. I’m heading north
to a place where prayers are answers
and answers are blood and blood
is the pink & ripe juice of jackfruit
grilled between buns, smothered potatoes
and fried green tomatoes hailing from a diner
They call Welcome. Ethan is the cook tonight.
He’s joking at the window about mama birds
as they file in from the night sky.
Marcus Christensen was born in February of 1989 in Phoenix Arizona. Aside from brief travels, he resides in Phoenix still today. His poetry has appeared in literary journals such as eunoia Review, River Babble, Four Chambers, and others.