left through a torn seam of the sky.
Mothers are at tables crying
but pay no mind.
This year I was suddenly old,
a mother,
and without a single cow to my name.
But I heard about the woman
who found an old hand in adobe
and how the doors of her house
opened all night,
so I know even my hand
has its own life
and my heart never believed
the end of anything,
not to mention the shank
which keeps getting ahead of me.
I won’t weep at tables
at home or in cowboy bars.
I am done with weeping.
The bones of this body say, dance.
Dance the story of life.
Mothers, rise up from the tables.
Watch me, I will dance all our lives.
These bones don’t lie,
just watch.