excerpt from Swift Cinder
[for Milton Apache]
buckshot splitting air, cracking space, ricochets off tree bark, tree limbs
scattering brush climbing
high up into Bear Canyon, into the mouth of the sky
— Wednesday, April 09, 2014, roughly around 3:00 in the afternoon
a specific moment and time
no different than the odious Big Bang
setting a single course of action as a determinant event
billions of years in the making
first refractive light against planets and stars
lifting split light against lit faces
bringing a specific moment fastidiously forward
toward a series of momentary collisions
Season Of Reformation (11/23/1990)
The Aspen’s Turn: yellow, gold, and then orange
They fall to their final destination,
with one breath from their creator.
A slight rustle of a stream; in the cool undergrowth,
Where the deer take their last drink; before migrating
into the mountains.
The fresh snow falls.
A glimpse of an assorted array of confetti
A path leading up to the road; dead shrubs, and trees.
A few birds chirping in the distance
The sight of death.
The sound of life.
A dew-drop on a marigold
A touch of god.
A flower in a meadow
What makes you pick this certain one out
of a million?
envelopment of toiling flame engulfing in combustion
gas, subatomic particles obit out of control
nucleus circles expansion girds into guard rails
flying fenders
in swift swirls of oil sludge, petroleum, plastic, and
metal
— the gestalt sending his ghost into nearby thickets
— in a dream
he devours kisses (11/23/1990)
as night follows daybreak,
spring calls the rain-washed valleys
and a butterfly passes through the rows,
apple trees turn a plum purple
to a flourishing flush with white edges
furnishing the garden
leaves susurrate, drowning his plea,
they feast on another butterfly,
which lands on the apple tree branch,
sharp slivers sink into the butterfly’s
head and thorax,
tree limbs devour the butterfly
as apple carcasses litter the grass
he is still afraid
a circular wave intertwines his hands,
first right, then left, reminding him of butterflies,
weaving his fingers into the tree branches,
what remains is the pungent smell
of wilting pink blossoms
as he tries to escape, the cactus needles cling harder,
he screams as he reaches for his mother
laying beneath the apple tree
across the stream, a spider web recovers,
the butterfly had its leg caught,
but through struggle the butterfly recoils,
and becomes restrained,
— his mother faces upward toward him,
but the stare means nothing
trees shutter in the distance, under the moon,
between two ridges, indigo skyline brushes against
the mountains, the apple trees lose their brilliance,
and flowers lose their prism,
spectrum rays cease to a cold grey,
absorbing our breath, our kisses
t’eesh [ash] flakes fall softly
t’eesh [ash] flakes fall in soft particles
t’eesh [ash] releases soft particles
t’eesh [ash] releases all particles
leaving a gold vacuum of space
[there] — kú’yuu
kú’yuu — [there]
[there] — kú’yuu
kú’yuu and [there]
indiscriminate object strewn forming dashboard
a quick buck shot echoing along,
Highway 70
the collision translates a probability cohesion of metallic abrasion
of beauty
upon impact birds scatter, then cease,
and a resounding shotgun blast
ricochets off tree bark darting up the canyon
— over
— and over
— and over
— and over
an abbreviated oblique asymptote never meeting its
predetermination
coordination
or terminus
Crisosto Apache is from Mescalero, New Mexico, on the Mescalero Apache reservation. Crisosto is Mescalero Apache, Chiricahua Apache, and Diné (Navajo) of the Salt Clan, born for the Towering House Clan. Institute of American Indian Arts, MFA Alumni, and a professor of English. Crisosto is also an editor-at-large for The Offing Magazine. Apache’s books are GENESIS (Lost Alphabet) & Ghostword (Gnashing Teeth Publishing), winner of the Publishing Triangle’s 2023 Betty Berzon Emerging Writers Award and a finalist for the 2023 Colorado Authors League Award in poetry, with a poetry collection is(ness), forthcoming fall 2025 from Gnashing Teeth Publishing. Apache is also a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee.