My mother collected the pieces
one by one
in the desert, the sand and skulls
cutting at her feet.
The Bone Mother, they call her,
La Que Sabe
the Wild Woman.
Piece by piece she collected
the bones of the wolf,
her ratty cloak sweeping the dunes
behind her, her weathered fingers
clutching those indestructible pieces,
never resting until each one was accounted for.
Patience, she’d whisper to me at night
My love, you’re going to need patience
as I lost count of the scars
as I lost another piece slipping
out the window toward the moon.
Once she found the very last bone, the paw,
she’d take them to a fire, lay them
in place, raise her arms, and sing. Read More