by Cole Roulain

near the center of the map, toward the
bottom. a shower drain of a state, pinned
in place by iron oxide, punctuated
by the rusty gouges of buffalo
wallows. topsoil, once black, lies somewhere west
of here now. tribal elders blown east. all
the work of devils, dust and otherwise.

were there justice, my grandmother’s comal—
all the iron she needed—
would sit in the smithsonian. in fact,
it may. if so, no notification ever came.

some days we have tortillas,
some days tornadoes. my great grandmother
was the one who actually carried
the pistol. just two shots.
all the iron she needed.
she told the mayor once,
“your dog can come in.”
you don’t sire a band of outlaws
by accident. one or two, perhaps, not six.

trouble was occasionally dropped off
on the odd saturday. shark-eyed; rounded
at the free end. cousining to beat the band.
i give it two hours before
she makes him go cut himself a switch.
a multiple choice test, intentionally failed.
next time as thick as your thumb.

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About the Author:

Cole Roulain is a poet based in the United States and is a citizen of the Comanche Nation. His work explores labor, inheritance, ecological memory, and systems of transmission through image-driven lyric forms. His poems often engage regional mythology, material culture, and transformation. His work has appeared in South Florida Poetry Journal and is forthcoming in Corncrake. His favorite apple is the Pacific Rose.