Sam Peckinpah, a Ciara Shuttleworth sketch
Sam Peckinpah (1980)
- for Paul Zarzyski
Sick of clouds, sick of clawed and ripped ears
and noses, sick of clouds the shape of dented
garbage cans digesting coils of Sonoran landscape
and men, ruined by love, on bucking horses:
I want a moonlight angel in my bed.
In the hotel bar downstairs, a hungry man
is trying to sell a painting of sagebrush.
And a woman is crying, and her husband,
face bruised yellowish-green like a corpse,
frowns over a glass of Red Stag bourbon.
Sick of furrowed fields, sick of boulders
migrating south in a dream about an Apache
drilling a well for a suburban couple: My chest
has lost its muscles, my heart its punch.
This poem is included in a Red Shuttleworth chapbook, Brief Lives.