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were spitting mad at Cantalily
when they spied her
drying pelts on bob-wire
swollen up like a toad
One said, "broke her arm looks like"
Another, "lost her feathers ain't she"
The third, "roadrunner on a tin roof"
Cantalily let fly some owlish words
"the dead shivered over a river
I lost my sight
minding my mind where a woman and child
pressed coins
into the ferryman's eyes."
Rabbit's eyes crease, a new moon
running away, gone before the night
subtracts, and raven returns,
its messenger.
Crones fume, figuring
stars per second
flecks per puma
snakes per path
"a duck tells jokes"
"division by flutes"
"loss of moths"
Single file
the keepers of the journey plod on
Cantalily wrinkles her nose,
walks a figure eight, watches them
Let greed for gold go down
Let rivers recover riparian area
Let flutes scale the tunnels
Let doors fall off their hinges
Let winter unfurl the cottonwood
Let seed the Great Blue Heron
Let wolves snare a fatted calf
Let thermal waters roam
Pray for us, Coyote,
Now and in the hour of our roadslide
Pray for us, Mineral,
Deliver us from leaflets
Rodent angels, pray for us,
Now and in the hour of our breadbreak.
A native of Austin, Texas, Robin Scofield has a chapbook, Sunflower Cantos, forthcoming from Mouthfeel Press. She was a gypsy scholar for many years until she lost her way and took up sculpture, which an actual artist gently referred to as "folk art."