Molly Fisk: Desolation :: Reservation

Thousands of acres of parched ground. Dead sage,

scattered shacks made from tin and rescued plywood,

burned-out single-wides, pick-ups rusting in place

where their engines stopped. No sign of life

though people live here and there: tire patterns

in the ochre dust, unbroken window with a dingy curtain.

No names for the dirt tracks curling through juniper,

no markers for elevation, population, or tribe,

which is a clue. As if someone threw a handful of dice

with too much force and they rolled off the table.

Copyright 2018 Molly Fisk

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