In church my mother let me lay my head in her lap
and sleep through the sermon
and she didn't tell my father when I took
The Body of Christ
home as bloody medicine to save my dying dog.
I remember the incense stifling my thoughts
and I remember the air was dry.
Ten years later, in the desert,
alone on top of the water tower
on top of Monte Luna
absorbing the full force of the Santa Fe sun
I laughed out loud and raised my arms to heaven
because I was Master of the Universe and
powerless to change it.
The air was dry, I remember,
and my throat was dry,
and I was crying for the beauty of life.
In 1985 I didn't know about "deserts,"
or "God" or "powerless to change it"
but I remember waking up those mornings After-
shadow of my father still heavy on my chest
shadow of impossibility slapped across my mouth.
I was alone in my room
the air was dry.
I was praying for options,
I was choking down truth
as bloody medicine to save myself.
Having grown up in Houston-
port city--
bayou city--
flooding thunderstorm water to my thighs city--
I always noticed how dry it was in San Antonio.
And that my father had at least two faces.
And I couldn¹t get the stink of incense off my clothes,
and my dog died anyway.
One of my father's faces could only be seen at night,
the other needed water to breathe.
In San Antonio at night,
I remember, the air was always dry.