by Karen Bjork Kubin
So says the sign—the warning kind—
on a lonely road in New Mexico.
So much may.
May blow night free of day,
may unpeel hidden from seen,
may release lost from the corners of its dusty maze.
In fact, everything
may rise up while you drive this length of road:
hills may roll,
the pavement may turn to river,
messages may crack and branch across the sky,
your chest thudding with the sound.
Hurtling across the land like this,
you may realize something,
may find words for all the nameless wisps
flitting fiery from head to heart to belly.
You may watch them open
like Apache plumes,
may see them tremble, lifting pink arms
to the sky.
A violinist by training, Karen Bjork Kubin has been exploring the tensions and connections between music and language for as long as she can remember. Her poems and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in Spillway, Whale Road Review, Rock & Sling, Ruminate, Relief, and How to Pack for Church Camp, among other publications, as well as in the 2017 Main Street Rag Anthology, Of Burgers and Barrooms.
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