hiking down to meet my family
Bella Coles
the grand canyon is six thousand feet deep
if you looked down
nothing but a sea of red
and my mother
crafting a future in her cracked hands
she was a painter,
maybe my father wanted to know
what made her think she could sculpt
colors that only seem to rust
at the beach
i think my mother was too in love with the ocean
my father the desert
when her art became less abstract,
she created from dreams in sedona again
how do you fabricate a
family in
the flesh of a clenched fist
when i tried to bake mine in the
heat of 2011
glided into fog
ash out the deck of a cabin
we were nowhere in august,
reaching into the ground,
trying to mold us back together.
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