"What am I without the next cloth of you"
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.