Continuous Drought

My hands cupped
cold in humid air
Water Boy kisses my exposed skin
I wonder if the Holy People see me here.

Knelt between two canyons
slick mud covering my eyes
hands waiting for something
for something.

My life is continuous drought
all the weeping shímasaní does
won’t water this one.

Subtle clouds roll by humming
pushing monsoons away from my weak figure
mud cracking with every blink
my hands decay.

Bitter rain clouds kiss my hands
healing cracks in skin
before
knocking me down.
Bones break easier than this heart.

Kneeling again
hands cupped between canyons
eyes turned enamel
bones broken on the wet earth
Water Boy looks in the other direction.

Sareya Taylor is a student at the Institute of American Indian Arts.