Morning, and light seams through Juárez, its homes like pearls, El Paso rippling in the dark. Today I understand the fact of my separate body, how it tides to its own center, my skin crumbling from thirst and touch. The sun hangs like a bulb in corridor: one city opening to another. When did my heart become a boat, this desert the moving chart of my palm? And when did pain invert the sky to glaucous sea, each home on each hill rocking? I would give my lips to a soldier if only he would take them as sextant, our mouths an arc, my tongue the telescoping sight between. Below such light, the measure of boys swimming cobbles, their stomachs dripping wild stamen. See how they are clutching to their guns like lovers, as if the metal could bear them. Morning, and still in umbra, my dog and I walk, her tongue a swinging rudder.
Golden Shovel: at the Lake’s Shore, I Sit with His Sister, Resting
Lost softness softly makes a trap for us.
Michael’s skin splinters below the water’s line, his navel and all murky and lost
like a city from my old life, or that scarf I’d loved, the softness
with which we sink into what disappears, and the country of his groin and knees so softly
already blackened. His sister snores below my hands. Her mouth makes
tadpoles. Her breath wet from chemotherapy, I’ve massaged her a-
sleep. Her shoulders swell their small tides. The air burns leaves. I want to want to trap
her sighs, dividing the stillness, in glass, to a Mason jar: breath like smoke against a window—: for
this man halved by water. But we sit in sun and grit, watch the waves which lose us.