With thorns, she scratches
on my window, tosses her hair dark with rain,
snares lightning, cholla,1 hawks, butterfly
swarms in the tangles.
5 She sighs clouds,
head thrown back, eyes closed, roars
and rivers leap,
boulders retreat like crabs
into themselves.
10 She spews gusts and thunder,
spooks pale women who scurry to
lock doors, windows
when her tumbleweed skirt starts its spin.
They sing lace lullabies
15 so their children won’t hear
her uncoiling
through her lips, howling
leaves off trees, flesh
off bones, until she becomes
20 sound, spins herself
to sleep, sand stinging her ankles,
whirring into her raw skin like stars.