Prelude to a Poem
I’m stuck I said.
Write about dustbunnies she said.
I jot dustbunnies are domesticated tumbleweeds
and then read it to her.
Good start, great image,
already some music building.
She claims she could not be
a poet, but who else
says such a thing?
Now I’ll have to go research tumbleweeds.
Oh, I know about tumbleweeds. Roll
everywhere. Stick to everything.
Wikipedia says there are many
different species. They live in steppes
and deserts. They are diaspores,
existing only to disperse
propagules.
Use diaspore in the poem.
It has an interesting sound.
It can be an entire plant
broken off of the root
or just a flower cluster.
And this—tumbleweeds
aren’t native to North America.
They came from Russia
in shipments of flax seeds.
Flax seeds—that sounds good, too
They’re described as noxious weeds
Don’t you think that rhyme here
would be too easy?
I pause while my brain once again
puts two and two together and finds
they equal oppression.
Do you know what that means? It means
the whole iconic Western movie scene
is a complete lie. White cowboys
aren’t indigenous to North America.
Their horses aren’t native. Those range-
destroying cows aren’t native. Even
the damn tumbleweeds always blowing
across the shot aren’t native. The whole
fucking thing is a lie!
You’ve lost the music she sighs. And why
do you have to make everything
about politics?
This Frenzy 