Abandoned well
Cuervo, New Mexico

SILVER BOX

I’ve written so fondly of heaven so many times.

The egg white, the ruffle over breast,
how rugged the soil for garlic.
The tin square is an opening to heaven.
Galisteo etching, place for worship.
Dry heave, splinter, caress.
Blood in the sheets.
Rinds of bright red melon.
And why are you so far away from me now?
Remember when I sat on your lap
and you struggled to hold my weight?
Not because of my heaviness,
but precisely because of my fluidity and wetness,
and because I move so slowly.
Once I held a tiny glass of dark blackberry port
in the archway of a gallery museum next to Jesus.
The last time I saw the gothic bay.
It transformed liquid to blood water,
the last time I was by myself in a quiet room.
I feel raw in the small of my back,
skinned and fresh.
I’m a baby animal.
Birthed from water,
Rain, stem cells, maritime trade.
There is a bartering systematic friction within the pulse.
Found teeth, found roses,
strung with corn on the rosary,
given to the dream brother.
Angels are waiting,
children with ostrich feathers.
From the box I breathe in the fullness,
a long awaited snow that never arrived.
The taste of tequila. 
I’ve fallen in love with a neck tattoo.
You sent it to me. 
The rust from the iron bed frame. 
The red paint from a dark corner with Mexican flowers.
How funny the feed,
the sacred coffee given to me in this place.
Silver box, Galisteo etching.
Feathers in the marsh.
Cowboy, I’ll live next to you,
our life etched into silver.
Blue, little green,
driving next to each other
on the high road to Taos.

-Natachee Momaday Gray