Two Poems by Lisa López Smith

Compost

It’s a sort of magic
making life and vitality
out of waste and the dead:
heavy branches on the bottom
let the liquid drain;
manure from sheep, horses, cows—
in that order—followed by smaller
branches, twigs, hopes and leaves
crumpled, dead and dry.
Layers, like a lasagna of shit,
grass, wood, ashes
from Vic’s roasted chicken
on the corner. Green material—
nitrogen, dry material—carbon.
Sprinkle generously with water
like your grandmother
serving you more beans.
Waste products, dead things
we can’t bury during the dry season
because the ground is too hard—
whatever expired, dump it in,
let the alchemical fairies,
mycelium, worms, beetles,
microorganisms have their way with it.
That’s the way of the cosmos
after all—there’s only transformation,
resurrection, rebirth.
If that’s not magic, what is?

*

I dreamt

of a certain light-
heartedness in
the yawning deep-dark
of the forest, shotgun
in the red Ford pick-up,
Willie Nelson at the wheel,
as we were escaping the narcos—
the same who occasionally haunt
my daylight and my neighbourhood:

Beckoning onwards
through the yawp—
uncoiled expectations,
turned to brazen gladness;
Willie Nelson somewhat
unconcerned by the unfolding
events, the sheer
bounty of honey
in the bowl on the seat
the bees humming along—
those purveyors of liquified sunlight,
despite the wreckage,
despite the chase—
emboldened, sweetness
enough, goodness to grant
us wings, but instead
we stayed—fear
gnarled through bones,
but joy at the marrow.

*

Lisa López Smith is a shepherd and mother making her home in central Mexico. When not wrangling kids or rescue dogs or goats, you can probably find her working on her next novel. Her poems and essays have been published in over fifty literary journals and nominated for Best of the Net, Best New Poets, and the Pushcart prize. Her first chapbook was published by Grayson Books in 2021, and besides her non-writing related degrees, she is a graduate of Humber College’s Creative Writing program.