Call It Fear

          There is this edge where shadows

          and bones of some of us walk

                                                          backwards.

          Talk backwards. There is this edge

          call it an ocean of fear of the dark. Or

          name it with other songs. Under our ribs

          our hearts are bloody stars. Shine on

          shine on, and horses in their galloping flight

          strike the curve of ribs.

                                                  Heartbeat

          and breathe back sharply. Breathe

                                                                 backwards.

          There is this edge within me

                                             I saw it once

          an August Sunday morning when the heat hadn’t

          left this earth. And Goodluck

          sat sleeping next to me in the truck.

          We had never broken through the edge of the

          singing at four a.m.

                                   We had only wanted to talk, to hear

          any other voice to stay alive with.

                                            And there was this edge—

          not the drop of sandy rock cliff

          bones of volcanic earth into

                                                       Albuquerque.

          Not that,

                        but a string of shadow horses kicking

          and pulling me out of my belly,

                       not into the Rio Grande but into the music

          barely coming through

                                               Sunday church singing

          from the radio. Battery worn-down but the voices

          talking backwards.