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Green skin growing over whatever Winter did₁ Bird’s Lament by Moondog Jazzy Sound and Morning by Cesar B. Lemon balm tea from the medicine farm— I feel plenteous in the sip. Resiliencia— the word flaming pink above our table at Los Danzantes. We share huitlacoche as one woman, three men— two of them are brothers. I can't help but notice their masculinity fumbling for soft love, groveling for prayer. Car tears for Mary Oliver’s On Being interview— writing knocking again. I am here, always have been. I will honor the inside singer. I will make appointments with head and heart. A man of Zapotec lineage confides in us outside a bar— his grief whole and corrosive. I lean forward to scaffold him, but he has a gun in his tote bag. Hands splay open in the Pachamama room— I am not too shy to pray before my partner. Ancient Mezcal and Cacao ceremonies— drink at your own rhythm your own rhythm your own rhythm. I choose the red candle, and promise to be a vessel for unconditional love. Playing naked in the cabana— the flickering pride of skin. Learning how to love myself: an etude, a war, a manifesto. Sleeping near the ocean, a fist-sized rock falls from the sky onto my beached breasts —a message from the heavens later punctuated by one long blinking comet over the blue night beach. // From Oaxaca, Mexico (2022) 1. "Patient, plodding, a green skin growing over whatever winter did to us, a return to the strange idea of continuous living despite the mess of us, the hurt, the empty." From Instructions on Not Giving Up by Ada Limón
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