By Laurel Nakanishi
A saint swings frantically,
flinging her blessings across the bus.
I try to ask the woman next to me,
about the loaves she carries
and she thinks I want to buy them all.
Cattle wear the hills down to brown snakes.
What happened here?
My nose bled.
A drunken wedding party.
The host and bottle circling,
pushing the shot glass up to our lips.
Throughout that night in the red adobe house,
in the cow-worn hills, they asked me
Have you ever seen such poverty?
I took it as a kind of apology.
Copyright Nakanishi 2011