Michael Rogner ~ Three Poems

Not in Redwood Country

this is sycamore coun­try
cot­ton­wood coun­try
the coun­try of waxwing bands trilling in priv­ets
the coun­try of parks with bag dis­pensers
to pick up shit next to tents and herds of goats and a mech­a­nized army
of bench­es hon­or­ing our dead – this is the coun­try
where no can stands a chance where we chug beer
for char­i­ty where some smoke means warmth where some smoke
sounds alarms– this is flood coun­try wild­fire coun­try
a coun­try of rice and almonds and prunes
a coun­try where we grab our trees and shake them –
our wood­peck­ers dress like clowns and refuse to fly
in straight lines – we build tiny homes
for owls – I’ve seen deer on rooftops, I’ve seen
leaves that glow, I’ve seen fam­i­lies gath­er along
a frozen creek to join arms and jump –
there are no emp­ty homes in this coun­try
no apart­ments no motel rooms, we have fields
that grow trail­ers where the moon arrives each night
on time, we have busses to car­ry peo­ple any­where
they want as long as it’s not here,
but more keep strag­gling in with ashy faces
and t‑shirt slo­gans and mus­tangs with the rear pan­el
melt­ed like the shrinky dinks we baked in ovens,
arriv­ing out of love or ded­i­ca­tion or the fear
of what oth­er coun­tries have become – I walk
forest­ed paths in this coun­try and hear the bram­bles
con­vert­ing water and sun into reach­ing arms
to bury all the things we lost
all the things tak­en
from our coun­try and giv­en to the sky

~

What It Is

Is it in my blood
because they said it is – isn’t
it some­times what it isn’t,
and some­times it just isn’t
what it once had time to be –
the cat­alyzed phos­phatase buoys
bob­bing the crowd­ed lanes
the only mis­matched smear
we are allowed to leave behind –
through our hearts and hous­es,
through our liv­er and prayers,
ping­ing the tucked away star in the big dip­per –
what if it isn’t hid­den, what if it is
a dim­ly lit wall­flower, lone­ly, or not,
maybe its own com­pa­ny
is what it is, maybe we all stand
in the lee of brighter stars,
maybe we all chuck our sins
into the ben­zene mist between
the stars that is, and the ones
that was, or maybe they’re
just wrong, and what it is
isn’t any­thing at all

~

Outside a God

The cam­era
I swal­lowed
locates pen­nies
my broth­ers made me eat
tiny Lincoln por­traits
on the gallery walls
as I fail to cap­ture panora­mas
of these Day of the Dead masks
with white tags dan­gling
in an ancient fort
where priests came to find slaves
but now tour guides
wave lasers. Skulls
and flow­ers. Lizard eyes
sink­ing. Outside a god
set­tles against a leaf­less
tan­gled lamp post. Outside a god
tells sto­ries we wish
we hadn’t heard. We pass a canal
where a salmon
col­ored bird
hoists its foot-long
tail. By the time every­one looks
the future has passed.
Somewhere inside me
the cam­era­man drapes
the black cloth.
Everything waits.
We exam­ine our phones.

~

Michael Rogner is a restora­tion ecol­o­gist liv­ing in Northern California. His poet­ry has appeared recent­ly in Willow Springs, the Los Angeles Review, the Minnesota Review, Barrow Street and elsewhere.