New B&B in Anton Chico (for Georgia)

wow— an arrow-slotted fortress
for Comanche attacks
we walk through plumbing parts
almost step on her old porch lantern
stacked doors lean, the floor a domestic dump
grandmothers stood on stools to level muskets
at natives shooting arrows
massacre, slaughter, death: the entire
town of Anton Chico twice leveled by
Comanche serious about staying in that
neck o’ the woods; can’t say I blame them
the invaders’ history lightly dusted
with cocoa powder earth in almost ruins
this garage holds boxes of old
glass like popsicles
deep cracked walls
mirror fissures on the land
a pastiche of plaster cracked
a reminder everywhere
of sharing blood

She, this village, howls witch winds through crazy teeth
pantomimes circles, spirals, vortices to an eye
I feel looking as we kick around in the dust
our feet like glass, our bones aging
crumbling walls smell of grandfathers under paternal stars
in the melting house she says, you know why this room has pink walls
my room as a kid, she smiles an old memory
bright sun, mother and father dancing figurines
peach walls like the rolling land speckled with ochre
agave blues and greens in mica-glitter slabs, black rock
we scramble all day, drinking water in her silver Nissan
the land grant rich with flagstone and occasional free-roaming cattle
red heads also, curious about why we visit the Pecos
their piece of heaven and sun meandering under curved-rock
shelves, layered like cakes, deep pools good as gold

On the porch, old stoves await re-installation to fire
up a generation molten with cedar and piñon
in the revitalized living room a snowy-haired ghost
gets impatient for Willie Nelson as
stars drip down to cover this million acre bowl
In the kitchen we play Scrabble and bake
blackberry pie, cook steaks on the wood stove firebox
Georgia awaits installation of the new
on-demand water heater for
second and third bathrooms
to give it all another go
new guest rooms for those who will paint and write
who will pay for lodging and wandering in
perfect piñon silence—who may be
driven around on the mesa, the hills, and to the Opera while
ghosts serve as gatekeepers to this hard won land
little dervishes of wind playing, just messing around