The summer your mother died was the hardest for me.
A hawk circled in my unblinking eye as I scraped the desert
for fragments of you in the disappearing dune.
Grains of sand like topaz dust stirred the warm night –
all because the moon could make love thicken,
slick on nerve edges, smear throats of desert flowers.
The pollen rubbed into the skin, capillaries of desire
splintered the air that throbbed with unbearable longing
of the bird that dipped from sky into my aching song.
My words snuggled warm in your palm like a bird.
The fistful of life that ran down your wrist was my heart.