- Vol. 04
- Chapter 06
La Danza del Venado
I usually die at the end of the dance but I’m still upright perched atop volcanic rock cooled magma with my bare bones index finger pointing up to make a rebuttal.
Thin dead branches sprout from my ribcage, my gaping heart-shaped pelvis. My antlers not yet shed, I’m ready for battle.
Tar black sky pinpricked above crucifixion thorn, starlight older than the bones, the rock, the dance, the people, the earth.
I have not fallen. Behind me the tree — her branches bare and clawing skyward, belly warm with embryonic life, her wooden uterus cradles new flesh.
I, too, will bloom. In the desert, we have deep roots.