Pilgrimage #22

We chain ourselves

to the tattoos acquired

at birth, Our Lady G &

the smell of roses from

the blood of C;

vases weighted down

with Chimayo sand. We

remove our shirts and engrave

our shame on damp, darkened skin,

cutting. Once there was a living

room hung with icons; now

there is a self-made prison.

Sanctuary in bottles,

in wrappers. Crosses at

the intersection where two

collided, and

someone died.

I am the mother &

you are the child who

lowers his head.

This is the very dry

landscape

we walk across

like nails. Burning

to come home to

the foothills so dry

they no longer hold

anything pungent.

I am a woman weeping.

You are my brother.