How many times have I been here before?
Smear a fragile horizon of blood
under the cross
road that my bare feet balance on.
Once again, the charcoaled wood
serves as my road, a burnt path.
The stone hills are beautiful tonight,
as the soft New Mexico wind
trickles its fingers down my arm,
like a lover.
For the seventy-seventh time
I start new, facing
north, east, south, west,
at a crossroad. Whispers from all directions
calling my name, echoing
come come come come come,
we wait for you, sister.
But I leave a trail of blackness.
I do not know where
to wash my oil-stained feet.
I guess I will keep moving,
hoping I follow
the Cross Road.