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
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.”

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