Emma Turner lives and writes in New York.

Here there is no wind
By Emma Turner

At the house through the branches
dogs without leashes their neck fat
soaks in sun though the man took
to the shade while ancestors played
laughing at settlers who died
from long lines of ants coming
into their bed, stealing their lover,
forcing the white man to sleep
in tepid warm water, so wrinkled
you cannot tell who is spirit or not
and it does not matter since
it’s all things you’ve heard
before trapped up in your DNA
going round and round like
the point you stand on
near the house that belongs
to the tree while the oranges
belong to the ground, and god,
herself, in the leaves, fractals
perpetually unfurling in this pear
shaped world and, at the top,
a nipple as the earthly garden,
a secret place like your last dream
where the tidal wave came up the
hill then retreated slowly.
Bodies lay on volcanic stone
and lizards ran again under
cactus arms . . . oh the more you
know the more you know
to know but question
the answer provided