I’ve been stranded in this spot six thousand years
bereft— too sorrowful to stand or even stumble—
much less swim across the cold muddy river

Of forgetting. In this place, my ass is as ripe,
and red as a prickly pear— nerves jangling
in my spine, cruel as cactus. In despair, my

Eyes are dry as dead saguaro flowers.
My pen, fallen, from gnarled and twisted
fingers, bestows a spiral of fine red ink

Onto the crinkles of my wrinkled gown,
abandonment decorated with curlicues.
Beneath my ancient lap, knees trembling

Like leaves, my thighs theoretical at best
calves dangling aimless over ankles
Stiff as stone— stark and still as silence,

So my arches cannot touch Mother Earth.
I’m limp as a kitten in her mother’s mouth.
I’ve been hanging thus, my breath is

Startling, uneven as a newborn’s, tumbling
like a star. The drummer of my time has
lost the beat. “Don’t hesitate, beloved

Child of the long arm. Hold the rhythm hard.
If you fail to play your all, you will see our
offsprings lose the songs. Don’t delay.”