Elf owl, cactus wren, fruit flies incubating <br />In the only womb they'll ever recognize. <br />Shadow for the sand rat, spines <br />And barbary ribs clenched with green wax. <br />Seven thousand thorns, each a water slide, <br />A wooden tongue licking the air dry. <br /> <br />Inside, early morning mist captured intact, <br />The taste of drizzle sucked <br />And sunsplit. Whistle <br />Of the red-tailed hawk at midnight, rush <br />Of the leaf-nosed bat, the soft slip <br />Of fog easing through sand held in tandem. <br /> <br />Counting, the vertigo of its attitudes <br />Across the evening; in the wood of its latticed bones-- <br />The eye sockets of every saint of thirst; <br />In the gullet of each night-blooming flower--the crucifix <br />Of the arid. <br /> <br />In its core, a monastery of cells, a brotherhood <br />Of electrons, a column of expanding darkness <br />Where matter migrates and sparks whorl, <br />And travel has no direction, where distance <br />Bends backward over itself and the ascension <br />Of Venus, the stability of Polaris, are crucial. <br /> <br />The cactus, containing <br />Whatever can be said to be there, <br />Plus the measurable tremble of its association <br />With all those who have been counting.<br /><br />Pattiann Rogers<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/counting-what-the-cactus-contains/
