The fresh beef hearts are stacked in a refrigerated end cap. How separate each one is—pinkish grey—wrapped in plastic.
He’d seen the cattle tearing the wet grass with their mouths, each beast a lowing, living table as the sky cleared over Mejia’s far pasture.
How separate now the tree from the field, the stone from the earth, the boy—from his bike—who rode by, stopping for milk, and saw them.
To be trying to find your way home after all these years. I mean after your parents die until nothing remains between you and sky. Who would dare unplug all this and watch the colors drain? So when I arrived and saw that house from the corner, the black paper unraveling in wind, layer after layer till its cloth walls lay in a tangle between the yard and street, and there amidst those blowing scarves, my father—farther there—was gathering blowing dresses, trying to fashion something human from the ruins. Please don’t tell anyone this till that kind of center resolves we call a grave.
That we’ve gone as far as we could discover, and here’s where the last road ends, but another one’s just visible, and here’s a kid spitting off a waterfall, and there’s another lighting a match in the desert, then staring toward the sun, and what the children playing in every subdivision say is just an echo of the green, while in cities among concrete and machines, still the chlorophyll shouts of trees, something to believe in, echo of the first protozoa and the pain we feel that once there was a fruit torn from each of our bodies, some human plan till we become foreign to moss growing at the furling lip of a stream where no one goes to find it, and when our children grow old, they’ll fold the houses up and stack them on the lawn, the grass I mean that only grows around large stones, and one day our sweet desires will all be packed with dirt and we will travel far by keeping still.