Walking in the Desert
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.
Other Works
Chasing Yuki Through Shepherd’s Bush (excerpt)
by Alex Beaumais
... You exit the Tube at street level and walk towards the smokestacks ...
Come to life
by Rae Rozman
... how do you know when you’ve reduced a self / to nothing ...