Song of the crow-keeper in the desert southwest, v0

That very afternoon among the

licking of tattoos, the

kissing of scars,  that

bevel edge, the

dolphin side, the

pain the

kiss the

trust the

come the

go like smoke:

She inhale them hummingbirds

that dared rise up like jesus

against the blood-stained desert sky

in year two-aught-nine

of bolt-action time

“Watch the birdie”

she says, laughs

“Boo!”

then

“Bee!”

hurries along her the dragonflies, resumes

eating her young

from within their amber of dung

She come crashing through thickets of mile-high thorns, of

mesquite trees massed, of

prickly-pears hooded, come

crushing them crabapples

punching them horses in they head

She threatened that desert, displeased

at its failure of purple sage

Bees follow her about the chickens

goat be king of the mountain

She told me one day after

the afternoon rain, after

the quit from work, after

the fucking in the heat:

“It’s only a chicken I killed that I’ll eat.”