perfume

of the wild west

Wild Onion and the Summer Sun; photo by author

my feet and legs
are coated
in a particular
high mountain 
elixir;

hands,
knees and
chin,
splattered

and fragrant -- 

it wouldn't 
smell
so bad
if it weren't for those
god-forsaken
free-range
cattle
that have destroyed

my cattail forest. 

i threaten them
in my mind
with shotguns. 

pow-pow
pow-pow-pow!

i imagine nibbling
peppered jerky
in the forest,
now sanctified,
protected.

but today 
they are here
because our fence
is weak
and full of holes

and my skin reeks
of their
shit & piss
as I muck through
hoof-shaped
puddles
to rescue

our water,
the wild mint
and my beloved
cattail forest.

I have given up working in shoes because the mud has sucked off and destroyed two perfectly nice summer shoes, so now I work barefoot, shoveling, trenching and hand digging with rocks and sticks. The cactus barely hurt anymore. Amara helps. We leave the forest naked, coated in mud from head to toe, hungry, tired, stinking of cow poo and the wild mint we have nibbled. I spray her down with the hose, and she passes out wrapped in a towel in the yurt. I chug milk and water and stare at the wall after I pour buckets of hot water over my head. The smell persists and a new herd of cattle appear at the bottom of the hill, below the yurt.

I imagine jerky.