Chircahuas Sold A Barrel at the Gates
Presidio of Tucson, May 1856
Late sun; sweat
pulled from the pores
by the giant sweat-eating sky.
Slowly drying up
there, spirits and steel.
Under suicide glide of sun, fifty nearly dead
drunk on periphery of presidio. Whiskey
in wounded wood, barrel from back
where whiskey is born, brought on
wagon train to the edge, to the adobe
fortress under changing flags.
Dark liquor & dark lips.
Leather is a type of skin.
Barrel tastes like gunmetal,
like the fingers near the lips.
Sun-hot, glass made with lead,
oil dancing on the outskirts of water
Whiskey, well-sat in sun, burning
the gut, held in its skeleton racks;
the barrel bound in its metal straps.
Camped there along the Santa Cruz,
the Chiricahuas are sold a barrel, sold
a slow powder keg,
a weapon to dull the stories.
Alcohol—a way of negotiating,
sign language of fist and grimace.
Alcohol held in the gut
as the horizon grows dim.
About the poet Logan Phillips
Logan Phillips’ poem “Chiricahuas Sold A Barrel at the Gates” vividly portrays a haunting historical moment on the harsh, sun-scorched frontier. Through rich, sensory imagery, Phillips captures the intersection of cultures, where whiskey becomes both a weapon and a bitter form of negotiation. The poem reflects on themes of colonialism, exploitation, and the human cost of survival under unrelenting desert skies.
To explore more about Logan Phillips, his bilingual work, and his contributions to poetry and performance art, visit his bio page on AZpoetry.com.