Last Chance Range

Louise Mathias

Vexed light on dune evening primrose.

The mineral lands denuded,
this still hurts.

Did I leave or was I left, slowly.
Last of the summer's

nectar on the blade.

Here, where the sand makes songs when
the wind directs her—

And the singing is an irritant
made eerie.


No longer embroidered
with my previous owner's initials.

Who bleats for me, inside his omened sleep—
whose small emergency grows.

In the hills behind the DMV, two
ponies fucking in the lupine.

I know you know I paid my fee.
I'm nobody's pony now.