Cries of gold or men about to hang
trail off where the brewery failed
on West Main. Greedy fingernails
ripped the ground up inch by inch
down the gulch until the hope of gold
ran out and men began to pimp.
Gold is where you find it in the groin.
That hill is full of unknown bones.
What was their sin? Rape? A stolen claim?
Not being liked? When the preacher,
sick of fatal groans, cut the gallows down
the vicious rode the long plain north
for antelope, or bit their lips in church.
Years of hawks and nutty architects
and now the lines of some diluted rage
dice the sky for gawkers on the tour.
Also shacks. Also Catholic spires,
the Shriner mosque in answer,
Reeder’s Alley selling earthenware.
Nowhere gold. Nowhere men strung up.
Another child delivered, peace,
the roaring bars and what was love
is cut away year after year
or played out vulgar like a game
the bored make up when laws are firm.
Not my country. The sun is too direct,
the air too thin, the dirt road packed
too hard. Someday a man
might walk away alone from violence
and gold, shrinking every step.
A small girl, doomed perhaps
to be a whore might read his early tears.
Let’s read the hawks. She’ll marry, he
go dry-eyed to the hot plain north
and strong, behind him—Helena
insane with babies and the lines of homes.
for Tom Madden