Poetry

Ontological Fracture 
by Xóchitl Vargas​
I am split, a slice of earth,
a fissured desert where
once a lake languished,
now cacti, the scorpion
with tail raised, buzzard
overhead orbiting around
what’s left of the movements
under my rib cage: little nothings,
ancestral drumming growing fainter
under the Tejano sun, under pressure,
like an eggshell ready to hatch. Maybe,
you say, we’ll make it. Maybe not. In the
meantime, I try to measure the distance
between whispers and screams, being
and becoming. Sand in my pocket,
destination unknown, I aim my arrows
at the pretty mirage ahead—tierra opens up
to receive them, like the wings of a rebozo
I forgot I was wearing. Teotl everywhere!
I can’t tell where the flapping butterfly wings end
and I begin. So much beauty it makes me cry.
Here I am. I see now, as the tumbleweed makes music.