In The Desert

June,
avalanche came with hammers,
pounding cradle into coffin for me,
smashing off these fingers that wanted.

(St. Louis opens boiling arms
while I drag these
empty things.)

I searched through snowflakes
to learn how
to carry rubble,

I came too late!
It was next spring.

I fell!

Debris soaked
by snow melt,
carried down river,
handed over to desert land;
an arid cough.

Dry woman are vultures!
Using neck,
hair,
steeples,
as steps. A pyramid!

Waiting for their turn.
We reach
pyramid tops
with them, our own tears betraying us,

slipping our own steps.

We fall,
down,
down,
down,

bottomless!
Hopeless!

While dry woman take our
place
as Mother.