What if you decide these 17 years have been served? They are good enough. Just enough. You sever the pack, grab your spare belongings, minimal and foreseeing as you are with Baja, the end of your camino. You want to lose yourself, encounter yourself, feel yourself in its saltwater blues, blend into the unkempt perfections, be the silent monk renewed in the crumbling of mountain thought. Roaming away from us, what we were, a decade plus seven. Not searching, but being.
What am I without the next cloth of you bound by packaging twines against me? I shock myself and become, expand to encompass the wax residue of you, melt it, meld it, make it my own animal flesh, never once held by spite. I take the remaining herd and repurpose the landscape, map out a small carving, sickle dangling, hard-knock in the curve of my grip, like crescent moon fallen from a stiff night, onto the rainy console of day.
Amanda Rosas is a mother, poet and teacher originally from San Antonio. She draws strength and creativity from her Mexican American roots, and from her husband and three daughters. Her poetry and essays have been published by The Latino Book Review, The Front Porch Review, Minnesota Women's Press, Anti-Heroin Chic and The Sweet Tree Review. She dreams of being a full-time writer and storyteller.
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