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  • Writer's pictureKaren Weber


Updated: Oct 9, 2021

New Mexico 2018

When I came, I stood upon a cliff,

red in the dying light, then fell,

pushed over the edge with laughter.

I sailed through the air

like a cloth doll with moving limbs

and no mouth behind cotton lips.

I fell below enflamed cliffs,

prehistoric plains, blending rocks,

descending arroyos and sudden mesas.

It has taken me years to find again

the magenta of the sunset

and azure of the winter sky.

Now I stand on high desert ground,

with scarred and snow-topped mountains surrounding,

the blood of sacrifice in their names.

Sometimes I wake at night

and sense around me ghosts

with belts of stones and seeded beads.

They come silently,

like the snow this morning,

falling in frozen tears on the burning earth.

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