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.
