As I've told several people, I keep
coming back down to the Southwest working
on several books, but always, I guess, in a way
looking for a new poem.
Some of these are set in New Mexico,
especially in Southern New Mexico, some of the more
isolated areas of the state.
This is called "The Carved Hands at San Miguel."
"I stood before the carved hands at San Miguel.
They could not touch the child walking home,
so they touched me.
The carved fingers were cold and hard,
and they jabbed me in the heart.
When I stood back, the sculpted arms
embraced the color of the day and let me go.
When I stepped outside, I was blind.
When I tried to go back in, I was wrong.
The stone hands kept me there, promising my sight back as
soon as I knew how to use the power of this darkness,
the need to weigh the light on the other side against things
I will never see, the Rio Grande changing course,
a hawk throwing the sun into my mother's womb,
and the fugitive returning with gifts for the family
he abandoned in his prime.
I stood before the carved hands at San Miguel.
They could not touch me, so I held them
until I could reach beyond their wrist and the arm,
the form of rock that became that white body left behind."