Grievous Hope

Desert November

the brumal breath of November:
fragrant burst of piñon burning,
washed into the tide of evening breeze
from adobe chimneys
quiet in the coming night.

the horizon melts in gradient hues,
like heavens sooty ice, easing to flame and landfall.
darkness comes like a great exhalation
bespangling blackness in bright silver spray,
flickering, dancing to coyotes song;
voices cold,flying over desert floor
soon answered by canine cousins
slinking still into silence.

Peices

It's been
a long road
and these parts of me
don't work too well

anymore

I said
take them

I don't need them
what do I need a uterus for?

What's left behind
are stitches
and crooked paths

of healing flesh

and I find

that I feel strangely
less whole

like
some woman who used to be

and now

isn't really
anything
anymore.