#62 Downwind from Pecos by Margaret Randall

Photo by Margaret Randall

Downwind from Pecos, cedar scent invades our nostrils,
transparent as sky’s unreachable blue
 
until this cloud that is not a cloud but poison plume,
smoke rising imminent on horizon’s shoulder,
 
reminds us Los Alamos is on fire again,
its people ordered to leave again
 
just as eleven years ago, ordered to leave
in that orderly fashion,
 
lines of careful cars, each keeping its distance
from the one in front.
 
Voracious cloud chews mountain ridge, spews ash,
its bloated belly menacing orange glow.
 
Thirty thousand 55-gallon drums of nuclear waste
wait restive as the flames advance and leap,
 
and other fatal chemicals cross their fingers
in this game of Russian roulette.
 
Government spokesmen look directly
at the camera, force eyes to focus,
 
say there’s nothing to worry about:
like Fukushima Daiichi, or Fort Calhoun
 
trembling on the banks of the rising Missouri,
before them Chernobyl and Three Mile Island:
 
each time-bomb dressed in the reassuring lie
until blood drains from noses and ears, skin buckles
 
and internal organs trip over themselves
in their rush to an exit whose door melts
 
before we can reach its threshold of deliverance.
 
—

Margaret Randall grew up in New Mexico, and after many years away returned in 1984. The New Mexican space and light are important to her work. Most recent titles include AS IF THE EMPTY CHAIR / COMO SI LA SILLA VACIA (Wings Press), SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH THE CORNFIELDS (Skylight Press), and RUINS (University of New Mexico Press). She is also a photographer, and often combines images and texts.

#29 At the Edges of the Pueblo by Margaret Randall

A great tree falls on a downed power line
and this time the fire is dubbed accidental:
Cerro Grande, Las Conchas,

no resources spared in a month of smoke-clogged sky
and the people of Los Alamos
finally breathe relief,

return to their homes, the threat of that other accident
still raking through memory.
PTSD common as the common cold.

To the southeast at Santa Clara, beyond the Jémez
they drain two irrigation ponds
of water foul with dead fish.

The ditchwater in Hernández is also black and plants grow slowly
thirsty for the nitrogen
cowering in sweet-scented legends.

One burned elk comes into a garden, is about to speak
then falls over and dies.
We wait for wind to sing his funeral dirge.

One list holds the language of anxiety: Oso Complex,
Dry Lakes, South Fork, Las Conchas, Cerro Grande.
Like broken thunder it overtakes

that other list: Cochiti Mesa, Puye, P’opii Khanu.
Turkey Girl is orphaned again
and gathers her charges who starve in secret canyons.

An ash cloud rises in air we cannot breathe.
People say they saved Los Alamos
and let Santa Clara burn.

At the edges of the pueblo all our ancestors weep.

—-

Margaret Randall returned to New Mexico in 1984. The New Mexican space and light are important to her work. Most recent titles include SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH THE CORNFIELDS (Skylight Press), and RUINS (University of New Mexico Press). She is also a photographer, and often combines images and texts.