I imagine a home land where

Nopales hang out window sills

and dogs beg for flesh–

yet we receive only bones.

The family name is cemented

between clay houses and cemetery.

Our only offering condensed to a kernel

and only then do the familiar ghosts inhabit

this kitchen, now, my own

held in ancient hands as I turn

over the coal and straw– the passing on

of heated tortillas on the stove.

My abuela smiles a flint corn smile.

The house looks over the mountains,

of entire lime fields and livestock.

If I look back far enough,

I can still see my father, a dark spot

and his desire to run over the hillside, to follow behind

the footprints of wild horses.

It doesn’t matter where he gallops, he’s told

when all he’s ever known is the earth he holds,

and the feel of resistance

when pulling on roots.

I know because I feel that too.

Out there in the field, a roaming stallion

falls and becomes a carcass. There’s a little boy inside,

whose hands hide behind a ribcage,

and now he’s a wishbone and a set of wings away

from the future that awaits him in the distance.