walk well the banks

Five dead crows, black stick legs splayed in the air,

lying on their backs in shallow snow

I found them walking at Pioneer Park two weeks ago,

Navigating ice sheets carefully as I talked with K,

holding my heart to hers 250 miles away.

I don't want to only tell hard stories,

but I can't purge my mind of the image of that kindergartner who killed a cat

(is it possible that a five-year-old could do that?)

and later, when he told me of his dad who kicked down doors

I felt only the sick familiarity seeping into the pit of my stomach

Brother, I know it well

The warm Chinooks blew last weekend,

melting the ice that had coated the streets for days

treacherous roadmap in a city that doesn't plow.

Silver earring glinting in the dark,

I thought of that metallic band of water flowing from the Rockies,

no longer reaching the Sea of Cortez,

of Phoenix's air conditioning and golf courses,

Mexico's dried-up womb farmlands, y todos los inmigrantes hambrientos,

But who really owns a river?

I read Mark 5 and had a hard time believing a father could be that desperate

I guess I missed the point.

Y esos fotos me molestaron, tu explorando cuevas en mi ropa, mi luz de cabeza. !Es tan impropio! Luego yo recordé mi caja de pino, de tu mano, de la que yo tomo anillos y horquillas cada mañana. Yo pienso que usaré eso hasta que me muera, contigo o sin ti.

So I will also learn to bend.