Possessed winds,
Parasitic land of dry cracked earth
And a puppet sun
Peer at the peyote groves,
The cactus columns
That grow row by row
And wait for someone to walk through them.
Troves of reptile skulls
And granite fists
Emerge from the ground like sprouts,
Blossoming into dust,
Tended to by obsidian monks.
There is no adobe abode,
No home,
Only hard tan dirt
To lay down a lonely mind.
For the nights are cruel,
Cold,
Commanded by chanting stars
Who sit in their cosmic thrones.
They call for the whispering dead
To summon the morning for sacrifice,
Then stab it thrice,
‘Til it bleeds possessed winds;
Watched on by a traumatized sun.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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