Tall white pillows, of unborn rain
Hang over my rented car
Red chili ristras, under canopies
Bless the motel where we are
Terra cotta faces, squint in plain view
Accepting the absence of shade
With a grace that I can
not understand
With a grace that I can
not understand
19 families, sewn together
Grown old and older together
Sleeping low enough to the ground
To still hear the earth’s dull whisper-sound
While puzzled, blue-eyed faces point and stare
And steal all the pictures that they dare
Of a grace
that they can not understand
A grace they
can’t understand
She asks me to buy a loaf of bread
She said, “the apricot came out quite good this time”
I hand her 4 clean dollar bills
And she passes back to me a bag
Warm as her furrowed brow
And as tan as her plain, martyred face
With a grace I can’t begin to understand
A grace I can’t begin to understand
taos pueblo
october, 2003
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