because you still grind yourselves into glass / powder just to wake me each morning. You grew into spoiled wet dreams who knew / my mother was dying before she did / her monthly strippingfor doctors; your quiet voice / the steady pang of my dull incisor. The texture of her pinto beans dissolved / …
Sapello sky open as a first breath filled pink with tomorrow’s weather mismatched fenceposts splintering into Ys those warped bodies embalmed with winter the wind moves in summer skeletons of alfalfa turned tumble -weed patches and pine branchesrecite mariachi music whistled by ancestors shuffling playing cards around a home -made graveyard in the field …