on the bed of pelts in the winter cabin. When I woke
they had taken you or you had gone with them.
And didn’t I, so green with sleep, track you
the three days until new snow fell?
A heart is a physical object singing in the chest. Chamber doors
oxygenating blood rushing through. Salmon through river climb.
Tortillas clap against floured palms,
steaming bowls of avena, frijoles
black as the rumbling sky,
arroz con pollo simmers. Against the kitchen
There is a little girl, maybe seven, fiddling with a tea set. Her mother
inspects drapes for stains.
and I knew that he knew
that I knew he knew I knew—
especially once summer had come,
and the sun stayed up till we had
nothing else to do but wish
and wonder about fine sistas
The wind and rain
don’t discriminate
in buffeting us.
We are equal
in the eyes of the storm.