Zanja Madre

i don’t like the water

although i miss the womb of my earth

my mother’s womb was dark and cold

pulled out dragged down

i long for primordial comfort

the safety of the sky is no longer priceless

the desert is warm at dusk

and the moon smiles her face down at me

as if pointing a finger

lost at the root i stand

without a ground

but i am not holy

little life big sorrow

the weights are against me

the lake of green is kept

by fire of angels

which i don’t understand

looking with no eyeballs

like Teresa

the dandelions are long gone

3 thoughts on “Zanja Madre

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