Christine Amezquita

The dust blows unrelenting.
Tatters my clothes, beating
until my skin sloughs off. Leaving
the cartilage of my bosom exposed.

I cup my organs like a newborn,
but they spill over the remains
of my limbs, gleaming
like nacreous pearls
in desert boxes.

And each new wind carries
brambles of laughter.
And each new wind carries
chuckles through my hollow frame.

And the muscles of my legs strain
against movement and time.
Towards shelter.
Towards home.

And my body turns.

Towards the memory of my mother -
a river of raven black hair
(water)falling past weathered shoulders,
and pouring into widened hips
where children learned to swim.