Passage (A cadralor)

From here; photographer and date unknown

1.
Summer heat, a distant memory at the end
of March in Portland. And even further back,
the desiccation of Phoenix. I’d wake to rust
on my pillow from nosebleeds; lips cracking,
stinging from sweat as I tried to restart the car.
Both of us overheated, stalled from vapor lock.

2.
Learning Spanish. The verb “to drink,” beber,
a softening edge to the “b” through my breath,
voicing sound through the narrowest opening—
a turbulent flow. Scrying my future, when will
thirst drive me to rummage through ALL my
lost words, surprising myself when I produce
Quiero bebo as if from a magician’s pocket?

3.
The sadness sits within my chest and purrs.
It weighs more than my heart, than Ma’at’s
feather of truth, and in this way I know my
restlessness is a marker of the danger I’m
in. At any unlucky moment, Ammit could
gobble it up: my pulsing, chambered soul.

4.
If I had a pocket knife, I’d play mumblety-peg.
If I had a pocket knife, I’d whittle up a whistle.
If I had a pocket knife, I’d need to cut a switch.
I threw away my pocket knife, tossed it in the
river where it sank like a stone, fresh blood
on the blade calling a flathead catfish close.

5.
The path is broken chert, the silver thread of
a creek shallow enough to wade. The path’s
that faint scar on the palm of your left hand,
cut while chopping onions. What I’d wish for
is safe passage; what I have is anything but.