36. Harvest

 

In a small room without 

windows, I am 

stronger than wire

able to run in one straight line

across earth’s skin

for days

steady on wind’s wing.

When I wake

I am born

back into almost

nothing I want so

I live on mescal hearts

and tizwin words

while dirt talks to me about

waiting.

Mesquite beans ripen.

Every day is a shortening

icicle off my eaves.