Poems by Kaylene Johnson-Sullivan

Thirsty

by Kaylene Johnson-Sullivan

From Canary Summer 2022

Kaylene lives in the foothills of the Talkeetna Mountains near Palmer, Alaska. She often rides her horse to the headwaters of the Little Susitna River, part of the larger Susitna River basin.

We have built a fence and gate
to keep animals in, people out.

I think about water that once flowed
through the dried-up creek bed,

and the tree that stands a century old,
sentinel perch for generations of ravens,

and the hubris of thinking it “ours."
If I could keep it wild

I’d have my ashes spread in the holler
beside the horse we buried,

in view of the pasture and mountains.
Once we’re gone from this place

it will likely be sliced into parcels
like servings of cake.

Wild red currants in secret clumps
in the shade of downed trees will be stripped and

the pasture carved into a “subdivision” with
new fences and gates.

Then I will rise to ride the bones
of the old horse up the creek bed,

thirsty for the water that once
ran clear and free.

Previously published in Sisyphus