Body
dog-eared, tracks
like spinal cords after the rains come
without any stillness, shards
of the downed Juniper like baby teeth
half-buried. Love
is not a living creature. Husk
of the body clear-eyed, flushed, blessing
every shin survived
in the backroads. Somewhere
in the sand I made a pile of the stones
from my pockets, left them like
an offering. Somewhere
is my offering. I had thought them beautiful enough
to keep. My pietà made of
the canyon’s skeletons. The first death I felt
was a bird against
my bedroom window. With little hands
I covered it in stones.
