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.