Sparks, Nevada

In the middle of the night, father
Brought me a falcon.

By morning, it ripped the wire and flew the hill
Into the highway.

When they found me in that car
My sleeve stemmed in blood,

I didn’t know what it was
I was trying to kill.

I saw a craft of orphans steaming down the river.
They were dressed in white and silent as a séance.

It was then I spoke to the bird.

Already God is shaking his black seed
Back into me.

More Poems by Cynthia Cruz