Landscape with the Poet as Emergency Responder  

there, where the earth cracks  
          at the whim of black molten blood  
there, where a stream dries—  
          a wound torn through the woods 

I, too, apply poetry to that spot 

dab here 
 & 
rub, gently, into skin 

though I know the ache will persist
 
it’s therapeutic, this medicine, not a cure 

I wrote a poem for my brother 
and applied it to his chest  

​check for pulse 
& 
give two breaths, if needed 

as if it might (un)burrow the splinter  
        that dug its way into his heart 
 
breathe, breathe 

I do not have a brother
  
We, he and I, made a pact amid flat Texas plains
     clasped our bleeding hands together  
and watched the blood drip out from our palms  
     onto dead grass, dead leaves
 
I wrote a poem for that earth  
    some years after they had dug my brother beneath it,  
below that hard to sift,  
    harder still to dig Texas clay
  
administer compressions at a rate of 30bpm 
think: ‘Stayin’ Alive’ by the Bee Gees

I never had a brother 
 
I had questions; I had an aching thought  
    I walked out into an empty field  
on the hottest day on record  
    before the next hottest day on record 

where I stood, a tremor ruptured the flatlands
which folded upright and formed the ruins of walls 
     bits of earth and rock tumbled downward 
     until the walls were barren, stripped, clean 

the shadows which immersed me
  
the doctor will see you now  

contrasted the sunlit terrain ahead
  
the doctor told me once CPR commences  
    the patient is typically lost  
there were hills rolling along that plain  
    and so the horizon was obstructed, not quite a flat line