She had lank hair, was not underfed, but still bony
—wore scuffed shoes, a homemade dress—a plum
colored taffeta all the mothers said was unsuited
for school. And, she didn’t like her name.
Dawn on the desert
as the sun, rising over the mountains,
slings its rays through the saffron haze
that hovers over the valley.
Forget everything. In the permanent night of your incarceration the stone ribs surrounding your soft heart have become a windowless pit beyond escape.
The last
of the winter northers
came through last night.
My daughter huddles
by the Dearborn heater