At noon, fox lolls in the sun
rises and trots, pausing now and then
to look my way.
How have these ligaments
held, for their umbones, each life’s intention
of never letting go?
You may remember my father
died when I was eight
my mother closed up
the house and we went to stay
with my grandmother for a few months
E.O.Wilson says we already know
what happens to elephants—to us—
when families are broken, when
matriarchs and memories are lost.
Call them God if you must
these messengers that bring hard evidence
of what I once was and where I have been…
I was fifteen years old
When I found the moon in the Biabanak sand dunes.
Samsara’s in every in-breath, each shutter click of attention: first warning
signs of famine, children lining up
for the soldiers’ candy