we learn very young that
we carry two kinds of heart

the one that struggles with blood
and the other we bury things in

both depending on currents carried
by pressure we are electric, magnetic,

and you can hide but there is still lightning
in the desert a sky blossom of sand and

thunder, sometimes it rains here
sometimes I think of you

*

If we have learned anything from this
it’s that there is no replacement for a body

during quarantine my grandfather
rushes to fold himself over me

to tell me he loves me and when I
hold my breath my heart aches

we learn very young that we carry
two kinds of heart, the one that struggles

with blood and the other we bury things in
sometimes you are so far away sometimes too close

*

yesterday, I found an arroyo that has been
turned into a forest of trees that spindles from

mountain runoff and I am alone and maybe
unreal and if we have learned anything from this

it’s that there is no replacement for a body and
in the forest where wilderness replaces me, where

llorona echoes, my mother remembers playing with her friends
and how they broke through backyards and grew up in the wild

you can hide but there is still lighting in the desert,
sometimes it rains here

*