III. My Natural Color
gold roots
blonde leaves
the ghosts of starlings
under the eaves
the wings of starlings
behind teeth
the voice of starlings
abreast on breath
gold roots
red at death
II. A Mile Past the Ghost Town
My staked claim wasn’t a place of natural beauty—
hardscrabble desert, a dirty creek spindling through,
the color brown everywhere, camouflage for the
gold I sought loosened by roots of gnarled oaks
with forever blonde leaves clinging precariously
from their low-hanging branches, their backs braced
against the constant haunting of the westward wind.
Ghosts wouldn’t bother with the nearest ruin of
‘once-town’ named Starlings. The desiccated planks
an I of shelter under the guise of an abandoned
saloon, barber shop and general store. Their eaves
have dropped no news to the wings of gossipers
for nigh three decades. Starlings was abandoned
before I was born—its lackluster hay day as a minor
rush town behind it when I found the first flecks
in the creek’s teeth, desperate to stave off the vultures
with hydration. I’d lost my voice and shaken anything
else pursuing me miles and miles and miles before
the dry mirage of Starlings loomed large, I had been abreast
death’s shadow on the longest mile of my life, his breath
the sulfuric stink I’d grow used to in this badland
speckled with overlooked gold. Tumbleweeds amass
where anything large enough can catch them—their
shallow roots not intended to anchor anything against
the hellish winds, but to grow and release the ball
filled with tiny green seeds begging the wind to shake
them loose into new soil. Like those seeds, I’m not needy.
The red sunset is gorgeous against the rise of butte
and I’m settling into this routine, slowly scouring
at the sand for my miniscule treasures, nameless
outside a town named for a bird said to precede death.
III. In the Wake of the North Starling
My claim wasn’t natural beauty—
hardscrabble , a dirty spindling ,
camouflage
roots gnarled
with blonde
The desiccated
wings
abandoned
vultures
. I’d shaken
death’s shadow , his breath
speckled with
hellish winds
filled with tiny green seeds begging to shake
. Like those seeds, I’m needy.
I scour
sand
for a bird said to precede death.
Kate Strong Stadt is a knowledge worker and poet. Recently, her poems have been published in The Racket, Sunspot Lit, and Gastropoda. Her latest obsession is learning about native plants in the mid-Atlantic. You can see all of her work at www.katestrongstadt.com.
Zebulon Huset is a teacher, writer and photographer. He won the Gulf Stream 2020 Summer Poetry Contest and his writing has appeared in Best New Poets, Meridian, Rattle, The Southern Review and Fence among others. He also publishes the writing prompt blog Notebooking Daily, and edits the literary journal Coastal Shelf.