Where the Desert Sleeps

I knew the miles before the markers, I found the west by walking with the sun. I said, there are lizards in my blood, there is sandstone in my teeth. I said, I am the light's daughter, I am a cactus wren. This is my home among the thorns. I said to trees, to starlight, I said to graves and streets and men, and you said, Girlchild, I live too far out in the desert. I whispered into corners, I wove into papyrus: I am the light's daughter, I am a cactus wren, I raised my hand from lifetimes of loving, died and dried to crispy bones so you would find me still with your name between my teeth, and you said, The desert has me. It writes my name in deathsongs. But I said, I know where the desert sleeps.