by Angela Ramos
I sleep better
because Nate is in the Northwoods, holding vigil
where I used to shed mortal fluid
to mark territory; where I
dripped saltwater and dejected tissue
in sync with lake tide.
my heart lives in the reedy marshes
that are tucked
secretly there among the bones
of old birch, rotting evergreens,
and dead people.
sometimes, though, my mouth
fills with the desert, with
pinons and roadside honey and
I feel the rope of moon and stars
I left behind there, in the
motel parking lot, tugging at my throat. once,
a raven approached me
and a quick, green lizard
perched on my shoulder. petrified
wood scattered the vista. this was
before your time. I wore
my dead grandfather’s shirts,
striped powder blue and butter yellow. I wore
wry expressions and a sunburn
from falling asleep in the back of the car, where
I later sold amethyst cathedrals
and Tarot cards that told the story
of how landscapes collide.
Angela Ramos