Vaughn M. Watson (1br2023)

Vaughn M. Watson
three poems from dream a wounded mirror

Danakil bipolar depression *

Sunday, July 18th— 
sulfur dissolves like rock 
sugar in the solvent 
of a copper spring

I find myself 
among parched carcasses 
dotting the land:

the origin,
Australopithecus Afarensis

the successor, 
a merchant balances salt 
deposits on a hinge in his back

the invader, 
I wring sweat into a 
pool of microorganisms 

extremophiles,
they’re called:
lovers of extremes

I unwillingly shift 
from pole to pole
tracing the trails 
of parched survivalists 

skirting deadly fumes
yet intuiting when to tear myself away

this land hostility 
I am afraid
the madness that led me here
may welcome me further
into its liminal embrace

*the hottest place on earth is the cradle of humanity 
I maxed out my AMEX to fly to Ethiopia for
a chance to see where life flourished
some 3 million years ago 

One night in Chengdu

Scuffed-up Air Force Ones. Incel expats with dreams of a quick and easy lay. Empty boxes of 7 mg cigarettes. A Chinese translation of the King James Bible rests in the nightstand drawer; you hold me while cleaning out my ears with a tiny metal spoon. The taxi driver prattles on and on about the way things used to be. In a humid valley on a late summer day, our pores open up like lotus seed pods. Hotpot in the shape of a yin-yang, cow brain boiling in its peppery broth. Jasmine tea leaves rest in the corners of your lips. A froggy gracefully dodged our drunken footfalls. My arms tight around your waist, we weave between exhaust fumes. N-95s were just for keeping out the smog. The sun sets between the mountains. Only streetlights, the glowing butts of cigarette stubs to light the way.

—back