06 Pride Issue · 6 of 11
So I went back to the mesayellowed with flowers for just a few weekseach spring. Sharp edge of volcanic rock,purple-black and porous, dropped off to the city
yellowed with flowers for just a few weeks.My home bled into soft dust.Purple-black and porous, the cityspread to foothills of dusty mountains.
Bleeding into soft dust, Iwalked barefoot through the landscape,spread to foothills of dusty mountains.I went back, went back, went back—
walked barefoot through the landscapewhose ghosts still haunted my feetwent back, went back, went back,wild sage cracked on my shins.
But ghosts still haunted my feet,so I made a ritual of the nettle’s stingwild, cracked on my shins,skeleton of choya crumbled in brown grass.
I made a ritual of silence’s stingits sound a wild glory, stillnessmemory’s skeleton crumbled in brown grasssearching for hawk, lizard, breath
sound a wild glory, stillnessin the ritual of returnmemory in the brown grassback to the mesa once more.