gorilla rain

by Elizabeth Kuelbs

he knuckles around his cage around
                   the tub it smells of plastic it smells
of rain that wets bamboo nests
                   somewhere he would eat ants from
his lovers’ and his babies’ faces where
                   he would thunder dirt where he
would tremble forests it smells

real

he climbs into
                   cool wet
he claps splashes stretches
                   his great arms stormwide he
                                      spins he
                                                     spins and spins
                                                                      his own rain and he
                                                     is he is he
                   his eyes on a
somewhere sky

On Fernandina

by Elizabeth Kuelbs

There is still
suspended
between
celestial light
sparked breaths ago
and the slow wet rock
that holds life from fire
a seal who sleeps with
squid in the mouth
her agouti fur alive
with quick-tongued
lizards who dance
death to the flies
who would
sting her
until they
too surrender
cool-skinned
to sun.

Droughtland Smoothie

by Elizabeth Kuelbs

Beat sun up. Blend 2 cups fresh
ash, 1 billow smoke, 1/4 manzanita
bone, 1 heat-scarred flight feather, hawk
or owl, 2 tablespoons doomy noon
twilight, 1 chlorinated
bee, ice.

Drink.

Hairline to navel (ignore sunburn tenderness) unzip skin.

Wait
for lush tumble
of mist, of river, of willow, wait
for singing oak canopy, for poppy, for mallow, for
coyote mint. Wait in the dark
for rain.