by rosemarie dombrowski
The worms are boring into the membrane,
through the jagged openings
that are pocking the skin
like a series of tiny deaths,
the miraculous resurrection of fungi and mold.
You cradle them like an offering,
as though you want us to understand
the nature of a dilemma,
the unpredictability of decay.
You are a nest in the rockface,
a reed between the lips.
You are the floor of caliche,
the yellow grasses in the alley
feeding on fast food wrappers and plastic #4.
They say that this place is a wasteland.
They say that this place is a miracle.
You are a wolf in the night,
a mythological bird without wings,
a lion skulking the river basin
covered in lime green moss.
You are absence of sense and light,
the light of the Sonoran,
the sensibility of the heart.
A shadow in the shape of a dawning.
A slight bend of the sun.
A stalk made of oranges
and a base of dried weeds.
The wall is never blank.
It huddles beneath the cinder sky,
decoding the language of the multiverse.