Poems by Bonnie Bostrom
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Distant Cousins
by Bonnie Bostrom
Bonnie lives nestled between the Organ and Dona Ana Mountains in the Rio Grande rift valley near the border of Mexico.
Cottonwoods carve a swath
curving along the Rio Grande,
their limbs casting bright coins
as though the ground begged
for gold.
Naked trees show old grey bones
branching to sky, their bark cracked
and wrinkled like skin.
We are kin, creatures chained to the same
orbiting cycles of solstices and changing light:
my hair wintering to grey fog on my shoulders,
my skin furrowed by sun’s repetitive summers,
rough-husked now, ruined. My bones turn
to shadow, shying away from time.
My life ebbs like tree sap
returning to the root.
© Bonnie Bostrom
Elk
by Bonnie Bostrom
Elk, running like a brown river
though snow-laden ponderosa pine,
never crash into one another
as cars might on a thin highway.
I am on the Jicarilla reservation road
heading home from Albuquerque at dusk
with precious provisions not available
at the small community store.
Strangers will arrive soon
to pay for rights to kill the elk;
silent guides will walk these hunters
into even quieter mountains.
It’s bragging rights and photo ops,
the ephemeral thrill of killing a big one
that bring them from the cities
into the wilderness.
It’s not meat they’re after.
That will be donated to the elderly
once the kills are dressed and
brought to the store.
Then the call will go out
announcing fresh meat at the store
and happy children will bring packets
back for their grandparents.
The meat will be boiled till tender
with potatoes and onions;
there will be a feast in many houses
and sincere thanks given.
My headlights capture the radiant eyes of a
great elk as it turns toward the highway.
My heart catches painfully in my throat
as I imagine this wild creature meat for stew.
© Bonnie Bostrom