The Bribe
by pat mora

I hear Indian women,
chanting, chanting,
I see them long ago bribing
the desert with turquoise threads
in the silent morning coolness,
kneeling, digging, burying
their offering in the Land
chanting, chanting
Guide my hands, Mother,
to weave singing birds
flower rocking in the wind, to trap
them on my cloth with a web of tiny threads
Secretly, I scratch a hole in the desert
by my home. I bury a ballpoint pen
and lined yellowing paper. Like the Indians
I ask the land to smile on me, to croon
softly, to help me catch her music with words

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