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Walking in the Desert

By Sudasi Clement

fall 2020

I remember cool dark tunnels,

freshly dug earth cradling us as we slept.

I remember my coyote-voice, and the run

and the hunt and the hunt-song.

When I was scaled and legless,

my tongue was my secret, my prize.

When I was a raven I knew bugs

and eggs and tricks and twigs.

When I was human it took some

getting used to. I crouched on the ground

and ate with my hands, howled in cars

and growled at strangers.

But oh, my beautiful thumbs

grasped needle and thread, baked

cornbread in an iron skillet,

planted honeysuckle and thyme.

I gave birth to a boy. Carried him

by the scruff of his neck to a burrow,

sang to him under a blanket

of stars and wind.

Sudasi Clement is the former poetry editor of Santa Fe Literary Review (2006-2016). Her work has appeared in Slipstream, The Main Street Rag, pacificREVIEW, Sierra Nevada Review, Ovunque Siamo, and Room Magazine, among others. She is the author of a chapbook, The Bones We Have in Common, published by Slipstream Press. She lives in Santa Fe, NM.


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