by Henry J. Morro
\o7 We go back to the desert and I lay my head on my mother's stomach and listen to the place where I began, when she carried me on legs that opened and burned rocks in the desert, legs balanced on swollen feet across a cracked earth.
I listen to the water beneath those feet, the water lost by bareback mothers, the water slashed from yucca roots.
I split a cactus and pour the juice on my mother's feet. As she curls up in the sand, together we watch our skin perspire.
We become darker, our bellies soft like lizards, our fingers digging into the sand, waiting for the sun to go down.