This is where I sat in the pool reading Attica Locke novels. This is where I looked up from my book to see men on the rooftop balcony, holding drinks. This is where the boy comes to ride the elevator, because it’s the best elevator in Albuquerque. This is where I walked the blue line of my phone between Mountain and Central and 2nd and 4th and to Old Town and to Garcia’s and to the Museum. This is where I see the white babies’ faces cut out and stuck like puppets into baby costume clothes, showing babies they could be Indians or Cowboys or Mariachi Mexicans. This is where the flamenco dancers come every Thursday night. This is where the woman comes to sell Lululemon clothes because her husband is a cop and this is a job she can do with the baby. This is where they sell genuine Indian pottery that’s signed and always on sale. This is where I walked on sand and gravel towards the cathedral cactus in bloom. This is where I saw the shadow of a dragonfly, and thought of Trinity at 5:29 and whether it cast a shadow as it fell

shattering sand to green light
children collected in
sparkling fistfuls as they died



Who can say what air was like before that bomb dropped? Here where air is both thin and warm, where July brings storms but will not hold them close, where mesas lift in welcome praise, where languages run deeper than a plough. Breathe, now, dust of generations past, breathe as your breath is carried by a sudden wind. Breathe, now, as the storm’s acrid damp after rain. Breathe, now, that heat rising from blacktop, tasting of sage, lavender, dianthus, thyme. Fill your mouth with agave and sing: this will not be

now. one. now. many.
as you became after death