Oliver Baez Bendorf
Even the yellow rose, the lake, even earth.
Life—not days strung together. The fire, the clearing.
Know what I mean? Rocks, Carlos’ fist, my body—
everything was a circle.
Our thighs was cold as rocks circling the river.
Snow covered the meat. Carlos.
We lit cherry wood. With Carlos’ arrows, we
flies circled us faster
at times throughout the
day and night. The kind of clearing where my breasts
was unmistakable. Some of us was quiet
in our skin until some of us was barefoot,
some of us faded into the
boulders with no sound – my whole life rose up,
ghosts into the flame.
circle overhead while we dig
for fossils, not of us. I bring a vial.
Someone breaks the seal. The smoke
feels warm, almost loving.
We fly all night.