Will Falk
Letter to E. from Sand Springs Station
Dear E.: Sand Springs has finally succumbed to sand. It took
a lot of wind. I heard your question about wanting to live
in that wind. It sounded like meadowlarks and April thunder.
It sounded like sea gulls in the desert. I probably would
if I had more old-growth sagebrush to hold, more pronghorn,
more rabbit brush to shade my lazy rattle snakes. It’s all
cheatgrass and it burns. Pinyon pines and juniper resist
fires better. You know I am neither. I am thirst and ephemeral
springs. Wet once does not mean wet again. Last time I went
out for water, I found myself forgotten and stacked like stones
in the ruins of an old Pony Express station. The Pyramid Lake War
back on and drunk militia men chased rumors into rabid
mountain ravines they never returned from. One day that will probably
be me. I heard there’s clean snow up there. Snow means something
to drink. If I had time, I’d send this by pony. I don’t. And, I’d rather not
ride good ponies into dust. It is easier, like you did, to send by wind.
Though I confess, this many lines in and I don’t remember
the question. Life? Meadowlarks? Sagebrush?... Please accept this:
I’m a desert gull searching for the sea. I drink. I fly. I eat crickets.
But, I still don’t know how to sing. Please send water. – Will.
Letter to E. from Blanca Peak
Dear E., There is no blood in the Sangre de Cristo mountains.
There are streams and they are blue. But the only veins here
are gold and silver. They bled out decades ago. I needed to know
if my blood still ran hot, if it could still make powder hiss.
But I had no blade. No needle either. I was saved by a panther
-haired woman with ice for eyes. She wore a familiar fragrance
that reminded me of my first time in old, cold snow – the clean kind
we don’t get anymore no matter how hard we bleach it. I knew
she wasn’t you. I caught up with her where the Blanca glacier
should have been. We found the blanket torn from winter’s deathbed.
There is no privacy for the deceased – not even 14 thousand-foot peaks.
Tufts of black fur stuck to pock-marked stone. Rams were swallowed
by mud before they could decide who had the biggest horns. Yellow-
bellied marmots had stomachs stained brown. Fireweed burned purple
and shades of dirty gray. The ice-eyed woman tried to re-freeze
the scene with cold, hard witness. She failed. Her gaze turned to runoff.
We melted together, then. Water wants to mingle. I wish mountains never
slept naked. Some things should never be seen nude. I knew
she wasn’t you. I knew she was, too. Her name was Blanca Peak. Will.
Letter to E. from Redwood City (Post-Collapse)
Dear E., Nothing but a war lost is as sad as a war won. We have time
to grieve now. The fight held our minds together. The best died. The worst
survived. Death is painful but this peace is excruciating. Babies will be born –
kits, quail chicks, eaglets, chubby infants. They will not remember. We will
thank you for that. Amnesia is the mercy we fought for. To forget the scent
of scorched fur, the strange colors streams were stained with. Redwoods will run
this city again. A few centuries to crack the concrete. A few more and all growth
will be old growth. Plastic will linger for more or less ever. Let it persist
as a reminder. Will I personally make it? I’m not sure. I’m not sure
I care. I never fought for the future. I fought for you. Do not speak of courage –
only of compulsion. I fought because it hurt far more not to. Are you safe now?
I’m not sure. Scars last far longer than wounds. Some screams stop
and some screams outlive the vocal cords that loosed them. Acceptance
is the last thing for me. Please don’t worry. I will find it. I think
I see glimpses of it in these green burls and redwood seeds. Peace, Will.
Will Falk is a Best of the Net and Pushcart-nominated poet, attorney, and community organizer. He writes poems while traveling across the US to offer free legal services to communities fighting against extractive projects like mines, pipelines, and clear-cuts. His poems have appeared through Chapter House Journal, ONE ART, Sheila-na-gig Online, and Wayfarer Magazine, among others. His first poetry collection is When I Set the Sweetgrass Down (Wayfarer Books, 2023).
