Sagebrush

Tieton, WA

Gunshots pitter in the distance.
The cows sing along to their

loved ones being put down.
Along the service road, the highway,

any undomesticated piece of land,
the sage puffs up and out, reaching —

who can make a little tree of themselves
before we’re all burned down? I rely

on the wind. It’s blowing the valley’s
insects at my body. Not an offering,

just a fact. Soon, the rugged contrasts
on Snow Mt. will turn black. It makes

more sense in silhouette, in its deepening.
Fuck it, I need someone to hold me,

but selfhood is a sieve. Pieces of my hair fly around,
catching on the low desert’s bushes and apple crates.

I’m not in a place to demand anything. The gnats
I keep mistaking for mosquitoes dart right through me.

Author of the article

Crystal Cox was born and raised in mid-Missouri. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Idaho. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Sonora Review, Shō Poetry Journal, Phoebe, The Shore, Nimrod, like a field, and elsewhere. Her poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. With seven years of literary publishing experience, she serves as editor for Outskirts Literary Journal. Read more at crystalcoxpoet.com/.