Originally published in crazyhorse, Spring 2021
Geophagy: The Practice of Eating Earth
I am a child of the Kings River.
Spiced with bear brush,
pulsing manzanita cider,
I have been craving dirt.
Minerals pooling on my tongue
bring me back home--
or maybe, I just want
to be close to you.
This year: shrunken wool sweaters.
My beloved boot sprouted a wild nail--
digging up from the heel.
This year: line up the headstones.
I have eaten too much ash. This year
has spun me back to the cold,
wet drip of Lost Coast redwoods.
That rotten summer where Paul’s friend
smashed the skull of a mother
deer mouse with his muddy sneaker.
She’d curled up in his backpack
with her three blind babes for warmth.
I threw a scream to tear off his foot
but was too late. I cradled the orphans back
to my sad apartment in San Francisco
where the earth had long been entombed.
They coughed up goat milk
its sticky cream drenching the down
of their empty bellies, gray fur
thickened like damp ashes.
This spring, rain in my pockets
cooled chapped hands. Fog curtain
drawn across the sea. I searched the shore
found a quartz pebble, glowing
like a milk and honey moon
amidst mudstone and red jasper.
I held the stone up to the sun,
like a window, warm light shined
through. I popped it into my mouth,
sucked clean the salt.
I am a child of the Kings River.
Spiced with bear brush,
pulsing manzanita cider,
I have been craving dirt.
Minerals pooling on my tongue
bring me back home--
or maybe, I just want
to be close to you.
This year: shrunken wool sweaters.
My beloved boot sprouted a wild nail--
digging up from the heel.
This year: line up the headstones.
I have eaten too much ash. This year
has spun me back to the cold,
wet drip of Lost Coast redwoods.
That rotten summer where Paul’s friend
smashed the skull of a mother
deer mouse with his muddy sneaker.
She’d curled up in his backpack
with her three blind babes for warmth.
I threw a scream to tear off his foot
but was too late. I cradled the orphans back
to my sad apartment in San Francisco
where the earth had long been entombed.
They coughed up goat milk
its sticky cream drenching the down
of their empty bellies, gray fur
thickened like damp ashes.
This spring, rain in my pockets
cooled chapped hands. Fog curtain
drawn across the sea. I searched the shore
found a quartz pebble, glowing
like a milk and honey moon
amidst mudstone and red jasper.
I held the stone up to the sun,
like a window, warm light shined
through. I popped it into my mouth,
sucked clean the salt.
