Our knowing is only
a feel for nuance:
I
Arlu sent a letter to Tuco.
It began by talking of petrichor.
"The pleasant smell that accompanies the first rain after a dry spell."
Tuco read again,
"Petrichor, the name for the smell of rain on dry ground,
is from oils
given off by vegetation, absorbed onto neighboring surfaces,
and
released into the air after a first rain."²
He looked up
and scanned the wash and the creosote bushes,
mesquite trees
along its banks.
"In desert regions,
the smell is especially strong during the first rain after a long dry
spell."³
Tempered and blended with the creosote odor, Tuco thought.
Belief isn't always
easy.
But this much I have learned—
if not enough else—
to live with my eyes open.*
Tuco stood and looked across the bajada.
He remembered desert rain, the silence that preceded it
and the flush smells and sounds that followed.
Dry washes turn to rivulets
and then a rushing, surging flood of dirty water.
He wondered about the springs that once dotted these bajada.
And wished he could have seen them
and their smell of life.
The recipe for hot water cornbread is simple:
Cornmeal, hot water. Mix till sluggish,
then dollop in a sizzling skillet.
When you smell the burning begin, flip it.
When you smell the burning begin again,
dump it onto a plate. You've got to wait
for the burning and get it just right.**
He reread the poem in his pocket,
The Banning of Beauty, by Carla
Funk.
It troubled him.
Moved him
to ponder
Arlu.
Deborah Bogen wrote the other poem in his pocket,
Bedtime Story.
Each poem is of other deserts.
Tuco considered past choices
and a quote in Arlu's letter,
"I married you
for all the wrong reasons,
charmed by your
dangerous family history,..."***
Only she'd inked in a word
so it read
"I would've married you
for all the wrong reasons."
And yet she continued,
Set my pen
to drum, set my drum recording—
I am the instrument of your intensity
and you my more. ^
He was confused by that
and more so by the next quote:
We understand the crisis
between us
is permanent. And then see ourselves
on the water's bare lens, our portrait, perfectly detailed
and minuscule.
The exhilarating life is finished. ^^
He didn't agree
and yet....
II
A hawk circled the bajada slowly,
in silent searching.
Tuco knew that hunger.
He looked westward
across the shallow valley.
No where
was there
celebration
loud and raucous.
The hawk drifted south.
He wondered what Arlu would think
of hot water cornbread.
And if, like the recipe,
it was time to turn the passion over.
To burn the unburnt side for a time
so to baste it evenly.
She is indeed
his instrument of intensity.
Tuco turned north.
Life is a dance
of uneven tempo.
Nuance is required.
Let the next portrait begin
perfectly detailed
and minusule
beneath
the water's bare lens.
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