Voices

Voices

We are made

to drag

the weight of ornaments

on our skin.

We burn

for the game.

The strength of our

amulet is in the

blood needed

to protect our village,

a wasteland of promised

tattoos.

.

Faces slump over

to quench their thirst.

We sleep in near comfort

tightening our belts

with our left hand

because we have forgotten

that Billy clubs and thorns are as painful

as the sting of a scorpion.

Migrant workers

caught in traffic

screamed

something about

a spiraling leaf storm

our dreams broke.

We found love

on an African plateau in Flagstaff Arizona

like fishes out of water.