by Brandon Shane
I knew a man in the desert
who sun gazed
even though it was burning
his eyes blind,
but he swore, there was
something in there, the big
dandelion, and it told him,
whatever it was,
that this sacrifice was leading
to something great; hidden radiation,
regional wars seeping worldwide,
firefighters committing arson
for something to do,
as everyone else
had gone somewhere
just as hot,
he told me, there were kin
up there, and he was a seed
that had floated away, then,
in separation
he began to mutilate
the nearby cactus in protest,
uprooting shrubs like orphans
rebelling against unjust masters,
and as his forehead slopped
with sweat, mirages
became ghosts instead of lakes,
dogs became skinwalkers,
and the sun had hidden
in the cool pit
of a dark fig, sweeter
than any delight,
proselytizing the boon
of absence
and how everything
becomes bright
when there is nothing
to see.
Brandon Shane is a poet, born in Yokosuka Japan. You can see his work in the Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded, Sophon Lit, Marbled Sigh, RIC Journal, Heimat Review, Ink in Thirds, Dark Winter Lit, among others. He would later graduate from Cal State Long Beach.
