What I found in the earth at Brierfield:
shards of white china, a deer bone knife,
a slave mother’s beads carved by hand,
and what I found in the earth at Tannehill:
two thousand iron nails, door hinges,
hearth stones still scented with rain and earth.
In the clay, I even excavated myself.
All my favorite stars
remind me of your parts: Al-Kharat,
but there are no stars named
for your scent, no stars for your touch,
no stars for your voice:
I cannot make a constellation of you.
Saguaro reaches to the sky
hoping to prick open a grey
stormcloud and wash in the cool spray
that tumbles out. Green flesh, drip dry
-ing in the desert sun; sand flies
nip the ears of pocket mice in
old saguaro’s shadow. It’s been
too long since pocket mice could taste
rain, so drink quick, don’t let it waste:
greedy sun eats rain off hot skin.