Blankets of Bark
by Sherwin Bitsui
Point north, north where they walk
in long blankets of curled bark,
dividing a line in the sand, smelling
like cracked shell,
desert wind, river where they left
you
calling wolves from the hills,
a
list of names
growling from within the
whirlwind.
Woman from the north,
lost sister who clapped at rain
clouds.
We were once there
holding lightning bolts above the
heads of sleeping snakes.
Woman, sister, the cave wants our
skin back,
it wants to shake our legs free from
salt
and untwist our hair into strands of
yarn
pulled rootless from the pocket of a
man
who barks when he is reminded of the
setting sun.
At 5 A.M., crickets gather in the
doorway,
each of them a handful of smoke,
crawling to the house of a weeping
woman,
breaking rocks on the thigh of a man
stretching,
ordering us to drop coins into her
shadow,
saying, "There, that is where we
were born."
Born with leaves under our coats,
two years of solitude,
the sky never sailed from us,
we rowed toward it,
only to find a shell,
a house,
and a weeping woman.
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