1 a small child of a wind
stumbles toward me down the arroyo
lost and carrying no light
tearing its sleeves
on thorns of the palo verde
talking to itself
and to the dark shapes it touches
searching for what it has not lost
and will never find
searching
and lonelier
than even I can imagine
the moon sleeps
with her head on the buttocks of a
young hill
and you lie before me
under moonlight as if under water
oh my desert
the coolness of your face
2 men are coming inland to you
soon they will make you the last resort
for tourists who have
nowhere else to go
what will become of the coyote
with eyes of topaz
moving silently to his undoing
the ocotillo
flagellant of the wind
the deer climbing with dignity
further into the mountains
the huge delicate saguaro
what will become of those
who cannot learn
the terrible knowledge of cities
3 years ago I came to you as a stranger
and have never been worthy
to be called your lover or to speak your name
loveliest
most silent sanctuary
more fragile than forests
more beautiful than water
I am older and uglier
and full of the knowledge
that I do not belong to beauty
and beauty does not belong to me
I have learned to accept
whatever men choose to give me
or whatever they choose to withhold
but oh my desert
yours is the only death I cannot bear
(Richard Sheldon, Requiem for Sonora)
Robert Smithson went west looking for red; a public sky and a great lake the color of tomato soup: “I closed my eyes, and the sun burned crimson through the lids. I opened them and the Great Salt Lake was bleeding scarlet streaks.” Bulldozer dumped basalt and limestone into the sea (the limestone is porous, apt). Spiral. Sea salt sprayed crystalline lace with every lick of wet wave. Brine and algae pacified the red water to pink milk. The landscape was a crystal mirror. Pelicans relaxed unbothered on small islands, bridges submerged by the sea. That was before the bones dried.
In the farms, borders, and barns surrounding the smog of every city—and inside every city—wolf spiders nestle in low corners with their kin. These spiders do not deceive their prey with webs; rather, they stalk and hunt like wolves, mashing other insects into balls, liquefying their internal organs with venom. They carry their babies on their back toward wavy horizons. One hundred eggs at a time. They hunt like wolves, but they do it alone like you and me. The quest for survival takes two forms, in nature and in man. The second forgetting they are the first. (a) the small child of wind (b) the Sun (c) a hole in the film reel (d) melting solids (e) rotten ice (f) a harmless beast (g) cairns let man say I Have Been Here (h) the insides are pink If I can make it the distance, I think I will join the spiders when the lake becomes a dust bowl. When the power goes out and birds fall from the sky. Maybe we will find a rock-stack in the middle of the desert. Or a stick in the mud at the center of a spiral.
SULK CHICAGO is thrilled to present Eyes in the Heat, a two-person exhibition featuring new work by Rachael Bos and Keeton Foreman.
