There it is anyway:
clear throat of the Jemez
through red high desert,
its frolicking tongue
through sandy bank laced
with willow, cottonwood,
horsetail too.
When was the last time
you were blessed enough
to cry the good cry?
Because it is the good
cry that arises here,
between boulder & soft
shards of shale. The good
cry, from deep in the gut,
from the floor of whole world’s
belly of hurt– all of us ragged,
all of us, these days,
so very afraid to admit
we are afraid: we might
be killed, we might be
killing.
Only a wet canyon can catch
this: swelling sob & ribbons of snot
gathered on the current.
See the cottonwood:
leaves lifted high enough
to quiver in the firmament.
Horsetail that sways like the
most greenly, generously-jointed
of kin. Willow stems dark & supple
as those tears in love
with the curve of your cheeks.
When was the last time
you were worthy
of such water? Full
of its own sweet
glisten, carrying you
on its way.
