We rounded the corner,
the Sandia Mountains glimmering like rust-colored prophets
from the passenger seat.
Far from The Flatlands,
I traced the curves
of Mother Earth with my fingers.
I imagined the way her gentle hands
could carve existence on a whim.

I want your body to remember me
I want your eyes to cast shadows
I want your skin to unearth creation
I want your mouth to quiet storms
I want your wiles to sink ships
I want your hands to unravel time
I want your chest to relearn revelry
I want your body to remember me

The town I’m from
has a history
an excommunication
of diversity
at the helm
of self-serving
Caucasian propriety.
My sister is 50 percent
black -
her ancestors once
ran towards the freedom
promised
in the small towns
like this one.
This small town -
97.4 percent white -
instead hung her ancestors
in the town square,
jeered at their attempts
to live among the same people
who were proud
to live in a land of freedom.
Only certain freedoms
are allowed, however,
in towns like this one -
only a freedom
of a certain color.

The glow of the party
reflected in your eyes,
the way you smiled
at me in the passenger seat—
you did it all
with such ease.
Every night
my bedroom is filled
with the unearthly wiles
of you—
the keeper
of all my future plans,
of the beautiful endings
to each night.
Now I know
I’m gonna be alright
I’m gonna be alright
I’m gonna be alright.

These summer days
I long only for a life
far from the pictures
scratched on to my arms.
Where has she been?
What has she seen?
I see her a mile
out from the shore
pulling flowers from the stream
a glitter in a dream
perpetually
she turns
the dagger in me
an answer of how
of when
the light which dazzles
and catches
what could have been.

It is
that time of year
again
when the rain
laps gently
against the seasons
when your eyes
are bright—
if there is a God
she is there
in the thunder
righteous
unforgiving
ebbing against
our throats—
children of the earth
it is now
the time of year again
to dream.

We light up
our Marlboros
against the wind
against the throats
of our winter coats
we grow up
by the lakeside
and endless sky
against the tresses
of the Midwest
the people here
are made of glitter
of known fortunes
but I am of the dirt
of unquenchable thirst
the road sets my fortune
of which I’m at peace
the wind should
be so lucky
to wrap its fearsome
tendrils around me
and when the night
sings to the lonesome
to the beggars
and the thieves
I’ll be there among them—
but more righteous
with my lady next to me.