Why did he take
me from the cave where
the little one chewed on me,
licked, sometimes kicked me,
but always crawled to where I was,
cooing to catch me up again?
The cottonwood whose branch I once was,
stood at the edge of an arroyo.
When a relentless wind lashed, then dashed me free,
I fell
deeply
adentro de aquel arroyo.
For so many days
water, wind, rays bathed me
whitish
light
until one came to claim me for his child.
To be painted
sky hues, sepias, rusty rock reds,
and the gray greens and sands of our land
was an honor.
To be smeared with the slobber
of the child
was another
Long after they’d gone
I reclined in the cave
pleasuring in wind sighs, measuring
the force of the rain when it came
by how it pelted my cottonwood neighbors,
hearing hawk cries
and
remembering the baby,
its drool long dried,
still linking us.
If he who discovered
uncovered me from the floor’s leaf tapestry
had known
had understood all of this,
would he have lifted me
cradled me
touched the baby teeth marks,
then placed me tenderly back?
There is no way to know, of course.
Now I am caged in something hard,
inescapable.
Just like so many of my brothers.
Just like so many of those who made us.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kary Joseph Shender has worked as a linguist in West Africa and as a teacher and literacy worker in the United States. She currently lives and writes in northern California, where she also facilitates workshops within state prisons.