by Marsha De La O

Marsha De La O

I no longer believe in Tierra del Fuego.
We’ll probably never arrive. Already I’m gray

as granite, and know well how to lower my head,
how to lock my tongue with my teeth. I will

need four legs and sharp hooves now. I will need
a long, strong spine and the ability to trudge.

The snow falls thick and will cover my fetlocks
but how else can I carry all your provisions

over the Hindu Kush? A crevasse is a crack
as deep as woe. To divide the genders, we use

a slash. And if late in your wanderings you come
to my barrow, ask yourself, is she in there, does

she wait for me? Yes, yes, I am no longer a beast.
Roll away the boulder blocking the doorway.

You may hear small shrieks, difficult to decode:
God hasn’t given us the punctuation.

I’ll be wrapped in a cloak of needles, but look closely,
I beg you. In my want, I resemble any other ghost.

Last updated November 25, 2022