[36] Roadside, Carina Silvermoon

There’s a story
down in the ancient desert dust.

La Llorona, they call her.
The woman who weeps.

Dressed in ragged white,
standing on lonely roads, by hushed rivers,

in spaces forgotten,
in spaces between.

Crying out,
for her loved ones,

Dragged beneath the water,
breathing, bending, still.

Arms scratched,
hands dripping.

She’s a story to tell kids
at night when they’re still afraid of the dark

when they wander too far
or hear the screams in the rolling night:

be afraid
lest you are dragged under.

They’ve got it wrong.
She’s our ghost, an old image lost in the sand,

a warped mirror
image,

a hollow desert wolf howl in her throat.
The fury, the pain, the bloodied fingers.

Just visible in the bedroom window.
Just visible in the bathroom fluorescents.

There’s a story
down in the ancient desert dust.
La Llorona, they call her.
The woman who maims.

I stood by the road tonight, watching,
a hollow wolf howl stuck in my throat.

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