Straddling across the river, the rope bridge like enjambed line
spills on the rock warm with mid noon heat. The space between
two lives wedged with serpents of dreams, coiling uncoiling
slops of messy memories leaving wet traces on the hard ground.
This chasm like the crack on my feet reveals tissues pink, floral –
but lifeless like dry sea anemones smelling of airless space.
I climb and unclimb the steps searching for the world between,
picking fault lines and whispering into silence and darkness.
But I learn that I have to cup my mouth, shout at the face of mountain,
to catch in the echo rebounding voices of the dead, waiting beyond.
(In response to Luisa A. Igloria’s ‘Ghazal, Between the Lines’)
My Garden 