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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Vox Populi 
I call it home. You got it right. Beautiful home and poem.
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