by Laine Derr

At heart, perhaps, I’m pig-like,
a javelina with beastie lips
and a barbecue belly. I’ve grown
tired of speeches, yellow rumped
warblers dreaming of dachas —
phrases warming to a soft sun.

Eating agave, I admire the winter
wind, ironwoods swaying to wartime
refrains (once dead, it’s easy to die)
as salad days slowly slip away, piñas
slow-roasted then crushed, a honey
well wishing for forgetfulness —

Mired happily in the muck, we rest, 
shaded by stones, rubbing of desert flesh.

Laine Derr holds an MFA from Northern Arizona University and has published interviews with Carl Phillips, Ross Gay, Ted Kooser, and Robert Pinsky. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Antithesis, ZYZZYVA, Portland Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Prairie Schooner, and elsewhere.