Three Poems
MINISTER
Not even weed works anymore:
The boredom is muscular.
I came here to outrun the environment
To be stimulated by the internal spirit
But the payment’s late, I’m
Grounded, a crater
Of data that frays at the edges.
Each word is leaking gas.
Each word insists
Sky bird, ground bird, water.
So I seek a less ethical god.
I am kissing my lover’s knees.
I am taking my house plants
To bed with me
Where we will eat like astronauts
ROUTINE ORIENTATIONS
On the ridge everything’s in triplicate: three fences, three gardens, three cats.
Like a blood cell, the shape keeps the structure stable, viable
even when a train blows into the valley
and disrupts the peace and quiet with its ravenous breath.
Three bird feeders spin slowly in breezy Venn diagrams.
The house is always set up for a party, aluminum tub
with three bottles of Corona in rusty water. The promise of rain
imbues the air, humid grass and cat litter in the shag carpeting
and everyone moving around as if in soup
except Beatrix, BB, and Kiddo
who strut religiously through the gardens, bothering the dirt for seeds–
confined to their essential purpose, the chickens commit to it.
PERPETUAL SHED
Surrounded by empty fields
we carry beams, bags
of trash, broken
refrigerator drawers full of
boxed pasta, beans.
We wander alone
or in pairs or in pairs
we weld the pieces of a trellis
together. We don’t talk
about the labor
of transporting entire
buildings here and
painstakingly re-
assembling them plank by
window frame by tin
sheet til they beat
back rain—we talk
about how the shed is going nowhere;
we keep having
to redo the joint
work, hammer out
fillers and flip them
or plug the holes.
Other than that, it’s quiet
except for the insects
and the far-off sound of bullets
hitting beer cans
until a military helicopter drones overhead,
impossible
except there it is.
After sound, look for color.
All yellow is probably a warbler
but if there are olive or black wings
look for size: female orioles are bigger
and less personable
than the goldfinch, who flies
as if riding sad waves, trilling
each time he comes down.
Look for
the invisible hand
in praise of production,
the crush of metal
pilings, smell of burnt plastic
emanating from the tin drum,
hoisting of planks.
Look for us standing around as a group
under the hackberry tree.
Putting nuts and bolts in my pocket,
taking them back out.
∩
Suzanne Highland is a writer, educator, and wildlife rehabilitator. Their poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and it appears in Apogee, Tagvverk, Works & Days, mercury firs, and in the anthology Home is Where You Queer Your Heart from Foglifter Press, among others. She is also the voice of Mortal Lives, an essay series about cities, money, death and wildlife, available on Substack. Originally from the gulf coast of Florida, Suzanne lives in Brooklyn and at suzannehighland.com.