Anasazi
       

How can we die when we're already
prone to leaving the table midmeal
like Ancient Ones gone to breathe
elsewhere. Salt sits still, but pepper's gone
rolled off in a rush. We've practiced dying
for a long time: when we skip dance or town,
when we chew. We've rounded out
like dining room walls in a canyon, eaten
through by wind-Sorry we rushed off;
the food wasn't ours. Sorry the grease sits
white on our plates, and the jam that didn't set—
use it as syrup to cover every theory of us.

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Copyright © 2018 Tacey M. Atsitty All rights reserved
from Rain Scald
University of New Mexico Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission