If the woman is a stone
bury her in blue water,
If the woman is a knife
rub her til she's sharp.
His voice is a rattle at the bottom of a tin cup.
His arms are spurs, and rusted
where metal pinches leather.
He shakes like a drum in firelight
with the last fist still fresh on his back:
ama sa'ni, she grow curved low like a horseshoe,
she pull stories from lamb wool, wrap up
our toes in cotton words,
I go walk on her clouds when I sleep.
Before the men with chins like rocks and the women