In the Fields

^{with lines from D. A. Powell}

We unyoke owl pellets from marrow 
in desert meadow. His mouth pigeon eye

a torch, womb turned flower. He, still a boy, 
dug from cactus skull. Undress into bark

beetles. He unlearns how to hold a fist 
with my hand. Bursts into dandelion 

seeds. We are all beautiful at least once. 
Mud water puddles along enamel. 

Eyeteeth blossom into osprey. Our bones
dampen like snow melt under squirrel grass. 

We could be boys together finally
as milk vetch, tumbleweed, and sticker bush. 

We can be beautiful again beneath
the sumac, yarrow, and bitter water.