​

Sunlight does not tickle—  she stings,

Sunlight does not sing— she shrieks.

 

Bending steel backwards and unraveling cottonwood bark.

 

                        Rays carving in your neck

            will scar brittle folds of skin.

 

                                                                                            *

You’ve never had the taste of home cooked red chile stew.

This is first.

It burns the walls of your throat.

You dip earth oven baked bread into your bowl //  grease juices absorbed // press against the roof of your mouth.

New drums — // familiar but not really, tell a story.

Dancers in the plaza // swift; they cradle dreams.

You finish the bowl and wipe it clean with bread.

 The silence breaks with a friend's gleam.

*

 

Grandmothers bake under high sun,

beams do not gnaw into flesh;

                        they are equals.

Children parade with dyed teeth

and crisp braids—

 

the sun is soft

with her babies.

 

And vendors display visions

for purchase—

 accepting the sting

from noontime golds.

                                                                                         *

Belly full of red chile and fresh bread.

A fattened heart

 to combust and paint the earth.

Run fingers over shaded lines of teardrop,  //

press  //  imprint.

You decide that these will shatter swift currents //  tickle spine //

and absorb honey prayers.