My lips are riddled with cracks and hardened patches of skin, like flakes of mud in a dry riverbed, splintering with sparks of pain as I press them together, trying not to think about the raging thirst thickening my tongue and making it nearly impossible to swallow. My hunger, once torturous, has faded to insignificance compared to my thirst. The merciless sun has covered my body with blisters and dead, peeling skin, irritated by every movement. With every step my knees threaten to collapse, occasionally making good their threats at the worst possible moments.
in honor of the 2009 Father-Daughter cookout.
You promised that we wouldn't come to this place
promised that we'd be okay
it's all right, you said, but there's no light
and only the evergreens aren't dead
I keep my heart tucked under sand
I keep my soul buried under land
there is the sun, you say, but the morning's not come
ancient, dry bones turned to clay
in my hand.
Was it he that sparked his eye,
Flying across desert sands?
Was it he who caught his breath,
Glistening flight, fiery might?
Was it he that stayed his hand,
Capturing eyes, hooves of the night?
Was it he who held his gaze,
Catching ears, swiftly legs?
Was it he who brought the halt,
Giant and red, power and broad ?
Was it he who that touched his look,
Flaming coat, glaring gaze?
Was it he who stopped his ride,
Piercing neigh, shrieking cry?
Was it he who faltered his pace,