Molten Joy

Crucial is molten joy,

burning me into the ground,

scorching pampass grass

still sharp as ever.

I walk in its midst,

slight nicks at my ankles,

calves and shoulders

sing in the sweat.

Not lullaby, but the blues,

high-pitched, momentary,

til what I’ve done

is walk clear out.

A yellow-throated warbler

chastises as I pass under her.

I can’t tell day or night,

the light is so muddling,

my heart is that open, that hidden,

anything seems probable.

No matter:

I put tongue to wrist,

suck at the sour salt.

Anything probable?

When feet brand

their own footprints,

the only answer is yes.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston