For Sergio Ortiz
Mother me, rain, I come home
tired and thirsty
down to the snake-hiss of my bones.
You grew them a white river of wood:
no wonder my legs thudded,
learning the lift of foot.
No one to water my roots,
I rode them sloping
to the river and told them drink.
My life sounded like a dog
trying to quench
the aridity of the west:
only marginally inhabitable,
he had perpetually
dusty eyes.
That dog has died
and I’ve buried him
too many times to tell.
And every time I climb on in
till he rises
to walk me home.
Even now, when I lay quiet as earth
under the clouds,
I can hear in my heart
the lap-lap, lap-lap
of that long, insatiable tongue.
He watches over me:
at the smell of whiskey on my breath,
he lifts his head to bark the liquor
back into the grain.
