Kindling
Fire in the desert from poet Matt Layne, read aloud to music by Ned Mudd
Kindling
Tell me your story, and I will tell you mine. A rag of colts splinter across the Arizona desert, white dust rises behind them like smoke, like dreams half-remembered, like a living prayer. The gray tortoise watches from beside the black road. Her back is the weight of the world. There is no chance of rain. You have heard that horse hooves sound like thunder; this is not true. They are the sound of goodbye. They are the sound of a station wagon door shutting and shutting again. They are the sound of our father’s voice calling out that last list of things for us to forget. Then there is no voice, no hooves, no rooms, only the vast open plain of your heart beneath this purpling bruise of sky. Look, there are the galaxies that were wrought the moment you opened your eyes and reached for them, and here you are: infinitesimal. Come sit by the fire, and I will tell you how wild horses spirited our father away as he lay dreaming of a tortoise and her clutch. In the morning, we can share all he remembered to leave behind.
Matt Layne writes…
After the death of my father, he began to frequently haunt the realm of my dreams. Usually, my dad would be in a room just out of reach or pulling out of the driveway in his red pickup truck. Sometimes, I would wake right as I began to ask him a burning question. There is always that shutting and shutting again of goodbye. I love how Ned Mudd's Taos blended so beautifully with the desert feel of this poem. It was the first piece I recorded, and it felt like everything was right in the world.
Tell me your story ...
