So I'm in Arizona, I had to read this poem called
"Gila," "The Gila Monster."
And it was a persona poem.
I was challenged--
I'm betraying my own rule here.
I don't take challenges.
I don't take suggestions and here I am.
Maybe I should.
So the challenge was to write-- because I write poems
mostly with people in them.
I don't write-- usually don't write
poems in which I personify objects or personify animals.
But the challenge was to do so.
And I said I'm going to choose this wise and ancient animal.
"Gila."
It's no curse dragging my belly across the steaming sand
all day.
I'm as thick as a callus that has shorn off its leg.
If you find me, I can explain the trail
made by a single limb.
I'm not a ghost, don't be afraid.
Though there are ghosts here, they
strip down to wind or slumped against-- or slump against rock
to evaporate.
Sometimes I crawl beneath the shedding, backing
into the flesh pit for shade.
Praise the final moisture of the mouth,
it's crown of teeth that sparkles with silver or gold.
I make a throne of the body until it begins to decay.
And then I'll toss the frock--
death by hunger, death by heat--
off the pimples of my skin.
Don't you dare come into my kingdom, peasant,
without paying respect on your knees.
What generous act did I commit in my previous life
that I should be rewarded with this paradise--
a garden in which every tree that takes root here
drops its fruit eye level to me.