Pachamama

By: James Crowley Chrisman

Unable to fly, the bitter
branches held onto open spaces,
as if they were breaths yet taken.
In sylvan, unspeaking voices, soaring,
screeching, leaning down a dozen alleyways
of purple dread, they howled vitriolic phrases,
knowing only this din- causing reflected confusion,
leaving ancient, trunk-pinning roots tattered, shaken.


This blazing, bold fulmination
yelped out in patuá, a dialect of
wind passages enscrolled on the brain,
spiteful reproaches for flightless branches,
imbittered by my neglect and fruitless without
leaves and reaching, their numbed fingers ringless,
having no grace--pointing outward, hoping her silence,
or speech, or palpable apparition might sooth the pain.