You left me
with the scorpion,
the night’s dim
unfolding at the foot
of a cactus,
left me the many
words of spring’s
nesting crows, the day’s
first beetle sighing in distant knee-
length blossoms,
when you left
days later, when
you left years after,
I remember how
you held dirt
underwater in some
river or lake
where we floated together for days,
when you soothed me,
believing I was
nearing you there.


By Eloisa Amezcua