after Marina Wilson Consider the hands that write this letter. The left palm pressed flat against the paper, as it has done before, over my heart, in peace or reverence to the sea or some beautiful thing I saw once, felt once: snow falling like rice flung from the giants' wedding, or the strangest birds. & consider, then, the right hand, & how it is a fist, within which a sharpened utensil, similar to the way I've held a spade, match to the wick, the horse's reins, loping, the very fists I've seen from the roads to Limay & Estelí. For years, I have come to sit this way: one hand open, one hand closed, like a farmer who puts down seeds & gathers up the food that comes from that farming. Or, yes, it is like the way I've danced with my left hand opened around a shoulder & my right hand closed inside of another hand. & how I pray, I pray for this to be my way: sweet work alluded to in the body's position to its paper: left hand, right hand like an open eye, an eye closed: one hand flat against the trapdoor, the other hand knocking, knocking.
October where three we-horses mark ground, turn snake our necks inside the guayla circle. My aranci, —etan, childfox out my fourth mouth, you drank then the year went dark & our own flowers & fires & what we thought we were though, still, our faces opened to the whooping of coyotes at the canyon rim, how they throw their voices out, falling, starless veils of lace over our still, black heads. Awake I sit sentried with all my Sight & the purple fennel musting after rain. This hour Become my canyon, become my bottom of the world listening for your breaths—to ward off nonbreath. Parent, my son—My son, a flicker barely born. Already withstand the blanched eye of our grief One morning with our faces crying into the arroyo it answers: Once there were no doors. No doors on earth, not a single one. —so when I listen I still hear you still kicking the ball, laughing as you say the story of endurance. & the women flutter their flickering tongues a flock of sound suddenly aflight to be, for you, both here & further they throw their voicebirds over the births so we are three & simultaneous earths inside your coil of fatherhair to which I press my ear to hear the histories, then the bell Then the whirl The whir of doctors above your beds, your noiseless struggle to be. Stay. Say. You are my Heres & Furthers Daddy, now I join the mothers Remember, when you were a little boy I used to hold you?