some of it comes back to me. the things we used to say. merry meet.
merry part, & merry meet again.
how i buried my cords in the red dirt where the scrub pines cried under the sun’s claw.
how i walked away.
but i never walked away. blood of mine under the red dirt, in it, become ants around the fire circle, become feathers in a hawk’s tail, become a dog’s red coat. there is no walking away. the earth
is a sphere.
how we get from here to there is still a mystery. you think there is only choice. choice depends upon exposure.
i kept the knife my father & i made but i can’t feel its story. it is not what it was, no more than i am.
(my blood itself is not what it was.)
what sowing of blood did i do? what did i do? what harvest now emerges beneath the scorch of intention?
(my skin is new skin.)
what did i sacrifice to burning, just another type of radical transformation, both process & result?
(my sex a new sex.)