Analogous
Raccoons can be landscapes, reared up on their hind legs
against the fence, body in cat burglar stance, ready for any
tricks the motion sensor attempts. Wrecked cars can be
landscapes—Christmas presents crumpled and torn
in the back seat. Who bought them? And for whom?
Where were they headed before taking this detour?
Who designed the wrapping paper to mimic falling
snow, candy canes? Mirrors can most certainly
be landscapes, reflect whatever comes before them, then
tuck whatever’s left down deep in memory’s silver pocket.
Wishes can become landscapes, once they are pulled
from the bone, all tinsel and prediction, whistle and grit,
entrusted with fixing on the horizon whatever appears
to be broken or undone. Turkey vultures, though,
are quintessential landscapes. They perch like tilted
weathervanes along the roof line, sample the wind
for that cadaverous scent that lifts these raptors by their
six-foot wingspans to soar on updrafts until they locate
what today’s buffet special will be. Then they land
like staggering sailors, hunker down, and begin to eat.
- Sundress Academy for the Arts Presents Look / Mira: Latinx/e Ways of Looking in Poetry & Prose - May 26, 2026
- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Sleeping in the Courtyard: Contemporary Kurdish Writers in Diaspora edited by Holly Mason Badra - May 26, 2026
- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Sleeping in the Courtyard: Contemporary Kurdish Writers in Diaspora edited by Holly Mason Badra - May 25, 2026



