spring2015

David PaxtonMauna Kea, Mauna LoaThey played it once before, mountain voices wiring through the snow. Two towns down. Theirs was abackdoor break in, salamander through the dog flap. A cup of water and a cigarette between, teeth smoothfrom brushing. Excavators, or instigators, pin maps, draw lines, brush dust from blinds to see sun, but onlywhite comes. Those two, just like all those before, one older than the other, shorter, double-sex admittedly,raiders of islands, drinkers of liquor, they saw what trees bleed and cities crumble to. Coffee settles in thebladder pushing remnant contents. Urgency for departure rises like footfalls through a front door singingminor keys at various octaves.Streets ring oroborus, a mixture of all edible parts, crowds clamoring inequities, their clay ranks multiplying.Then the rains come continuing on four months strong. The throngs melt into rivers coiling through thetwo’s toes still undiscovered, veins richer than ever, hair fanning, flesh taut.Underestimated among gardenias, wild roses, and jasmine, they lay joking what they took and will take.Unable to be belittled, they need no one else, only the two should suffice.69