See Rock City

I go to the woods at sun-up,
walk barefoot through
frost and fallen leaves.
Wide-eyed, I
watch the rise over canyons
and the frozen Georgia hills.
Further south,
iron-rich soil
baked by iron-rich sun
nurtures cotton fields,
peach trees, peanut plantations.
Fields, trees, plantations
bring the riches of the world
to Waycross, Savannah,
and Macon,
but the frost in the northern hills
just freezes my dirty toes.
No longer do we meet a power
there in those hills,
no longer can we worship
the chilly Tennessee Valley.
Divorced from romantic feelings
of oneness,
atop Lookout Mountain
we see seven states,
and seven states only.
And I go to the woods at sun-up,
send my dirty toes down
into rocky earth,
attempting to make those
old connections,
attempting to fill my own private
Tallulah Gorge,
nurtured by the
iron-rich sun.

Joshua Tree

The golden rays
of southern California sunset
glowed through southern
California smog
as we turned east
at Barstow in
a borrowed car.
We turned east
on that two-lane black-top
over borrowed Mojave land.
Just past a truck stop
where we loaded down
with Doritos, root beer,
Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls,
we passed a Joshua Tree.
We were our own Wheeler Expedition
surveying the land
and gathering specimens
for future study.
George Englemann saw the trees
and remembered his family bible.
Those Mormons too,
saw the trees.
And Joshua raised his hands
to guide the conquering Israelites
through Canaan,
to victory over their desert foes.
In Needles, w/ tacos for breakfast
and tacos in our tank,
we remembered those early days
3,000 years ago.
In the court of Josiah,
they remembered the hands of Joshua,
outstretched and strong.
At Needles,
we used the yucca palm
to guide our expedition up the hills
beyond those feral mules
to Oatman, Kingman, Seligman.
But before George Wheeler,
the Mojave was rattlesnake land.
The ancient Mojave
had rattlesnake visions
and moon flower dreams.
We ate our Doritos
and made good time.
The two-lane black-top
opened into I-40 freedom;
that Barstow Joshua Tree
in our rearview mirror
and in our parched
Yuman
dust.

Andre F. Peltier (he/him) is a Pushcart Nominee and a Lecturer III at Eastern Michigan University where he teaches literature and writing. He lives in Ypsilanti, MI, with his wife and children. His poetry has recently appeared in various publications like CP Quarterly, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Provenance Journal, Lavender and Lime Review, About Place, Novus Review, Fiery Scribe, and Fahmidan Journal, and most recently in Magpie Literary Journal, The Brazos Review, and Idle Ink. In his free time, he obsesses over soccer and comic books.

Twitter: @aandrefpeltier

Website: www.andrefpeltier.com